Ships Passing in the Night
by ChasetheWindTouchtheSky
Summary: AU from 4X01. 48 hours. 48 hours is the timeline when someone is taken. After 48 hours, the percentage of finding them alive is greatly decreased. It's been over a year. (The rescue in Mexico doesn't go quite as the McCall pack had hoped) Rating for language and violence.
1. Prologue

**OH CRAP. WHY AM I DOING THIS AGAIN.**

**Yup – ChasetheWindTouchtheSky here. And I've decided to go ahead with my idea I got in the middle of ****_Take Back This Soul That is So Rightfully Mine_****. I'm so sorry for those who aren't a fan of the stiles!Whump, but it's fun to write for me, so buckle down for another one.**

**This story will be entirely AU from the current season, but I'll probably take some elements. It's canon up until the first episode: it's an alternative suggestion to what the Calaveras were planning to do with Scott when he was strapped in the chair and a new set of consequences.**

**I can't believe I'm getting myself into these shenanigans again, but let's get started, shall we?**

PROLOGUE

_Once Upon a Time in Mexico_

They say that when someone goes missing, there's a 48-hour window. That's it. 48 hours. That's 2,880 seconds. In the grand scheme of things, it's such a laughably miniscule amount of time to be searching for someone until all hope is lost.

But this was a proven fact. 48 hours and the percentage of finding the person – particularly alive and still in one piece – drastically drops until, mathematically speaking, there was no hope to find them.

48 hours.

For the Sheriff, it'd been one year, two months, and five days. That's a lot of hours to pass and a lot of time to be searching. The FBI teams had long given up, the posters had been torn from the walls, and the dogs were instructed to find a body, not a teenager. Statistically speaking, the numbers were not on his side.

He passed the excuse of using department resources a long time ago. So he didn't. He stopped using them (illegally) seven months ago. He stopped his own private investigation in the last five. And most importantly, he stopped thinking the wiry, annoying, frustrating, wonderful, creative, extraordinary teen would walk through the door someday in the last four months. Because the fact of the matter is, now?

Stiles is now just a picture and a memory.

_One Year, Two Months, and Five Days Ago_

The room is thick with tension. Scott is panting, his chest draped over the back to the chair he's restrained to, watching his pack slowly crumble. His eyes dart from Kira's hand on the knob controlling the electricity running through his veins, to Lydia strapped at his side. Just a while ago, they brought a fierce Malia and panicked Stiles into the room, adding to the severity of the situation.

Scott tries to think of something, but of course his mind is coming up blank. He just wanted to help get Derek back, that's all. How did things manage to go astronomically wrong in such a sort amount of time? He catches Stiles' gaze and his skin crawls. Stiles has got that look. That look of his brain going far too fast for him to ever keep up – usually with the conclusion being something he's going to hate.

"You think that a werewolf can come into my home," Lady Calaveras states, her tone and visage fierce. "And demand that I do something for _them_. Even if I knew where Derek Hale was, there is no way I would give his location. Because you've been around the Argents for far too long."

Scott winces, but no one has touched the dial of the device. Even the mention of her last name awakens something horrifying within him. Like an open wound that will forever remain open, only to be irritated with the slightest of ease.

He's awoken from his own horrifying world when he realizes that Lady Calaveras has come inches from his face. "Because here? In my home?" She spits. "_We hunt those that hunt us._"

She retreats from him, a vicious smile on her face. "I wonder how much a True Alpha is worth to certain groups of people?"

Scott freezes, unable to mask his own fear.

"Because, we catch Alphas all the time. But True Alphas? That's an entirely different story. I'm certain the right… bidder could present themselves if give the correct push."

"Are you crazy?" Lydia cries from his side, but Scott's already going numb. He knows the situation. His pack is in a life threatening situation and if he doesn't do as she says, he's certain she won't hesitate to harm them. "We're teenagers!"

"And the black market for the supernatural exists for a reason." Lady Calaveras states with a calm that only makes Scott feel even worse. "As long as we don't make a spectacle and sell those we catch too visibly, no one is the wiser. One missing teenager won't be the end of the world."

She grins at him with a vengeful look.

Scott can't help it; he finds himself looking at Stiles. Stiles always has a Plan B if something went wrong. Even in preparation for this rescue – although, they could've never really prepared for this – he stated he came up with several, just in case. And now?

Now he's looking contemplatively at Lady Calaveras and for some reason, that's all the more terrifying.

Lady Calaveras merely grins at the teenagers' apparent loss to the situation, nodding at one of her henchmen. He opens a laptop and starts typing furiously, Scott unable to come up with any solution that would get him out of being sold.

_Sold_.

Like an animal.

"I think you're making a wild oversight."

Scott looks up from his resignation to see that Stiles' face is completely calm. He smirks after his admission, eyeing Lady Calaveras with amusement. The guy stops typing and she turns around, frowning at the teen.

"I beg your pardon?" She asks shortly.

"I mean, don't get me wrong. True Alpha – yikes. Jackpot on that one." He plows further on, putting his hands up to reveal shackles that are keeping him in place. "Truly, truly an inspiration on your ability to lock up innocent teenagers trying to get their friend back."

"I don't know if I would call breaking into my home as a flair of innocence."

"Breaking in?" Stiles repeats with a snort. "You literally let us in and we tried to pay you for Derek Hale, who clearly, you don't even have. All of this is just dramatic bullshit that you're expecting to get a profit off of. But I maintain my original thought: you're making a pretty big oversight."

Lady Calaveras frowns, taking a few aggressive steps toward him. "Stiles, whatever you're doing, stop!" Scott shouts because A) he can't for the life of him figure out what Stiles is _actually_ doing but B) knows that it can't be anything good if it involves provoking a seasoned hunter.

Stiles throws him a warning look that clearly states 'Shut up stupid, I know what I'm doing.'

"And who, exactly, am I overlooking? Out of a banshee, a fox, and a coyote, a True Alpha is far superior."

"Totally." Stiles agree. "I'm all for you letting all aforementioned people go because they are totally common and useless. I mean, banshees? Blech – been there done that, there's really no reason for her to even be here."

Scott can see the corner of Lydia's mouth from the corner of his eye.

"And I'm not arguing that a True Alpha isn't better than all of those," Stiles continues. "I used the word 'overlooked,' which, by definition, means you haven't looked at it yet."

"Stiles!" Lydia hisses, her eyes full of fear for the teen who is _provoking the murderous hunter_.

He waves her aside. "Because sure, they are rare. But they _happen_. More than once."

Lady Calaveras is now feet away from him, smirking. "Then who, may I ask, am I overlooking?"

Stiles smiles brightly. "Isn't it obvious?" He waves his hands out grandiosely. "Me."

There's an awkward pause in the room, clear that the Calaveras are waiting for the punch line. When it doesn't come, everyone starts to laugh. It doesn't dampen Stiles' smile. "Pardon me, but what exactly are you?" Lady Calaveras says through her grin. "Abominable snowman?"

Stiles snorts. "No, but that would be totally cool. Something a little darker than that." His goofiness fades and he states, "Nogitsune survivor."

The air in the room feels like it disappears.

Scott can see he's got her interest. And that terrifies him.

"Because I've done some research," Stiles continues because of course he has. "And _that_ is something that's never happened before. People always kill the host. It's the only way they can think to kill the Nogitsune itself. Or, they die due to the drain on their system. No one has actually lived through it before."

He's different. Stiles chooses not to speak of the past few months. Even the word 'Nogitsune' has become something sort of taboo back home. Scott knows his best friend still has nightmare, still thinks that he's possessed at times, but he _never_ talks about it. Even speaking about it now, the lines in his face deepen and his looks older.

A little broken.

"So sure, you can sell a True Alpha, that's fine." He shrugs. "But imagine what people would pay for something that, up until a couple months ago, didn't exist."

Lady Calaveras stares at him, her eyes lighting up. Scott can't believe it. She's seriously considering it.

"But, I totally understand if you don't want to," Stiles says, his charming demeanor coming once more. He puts his hands up. "I get it. Don't want to take the risk. But – I have taken economics. The greater the risk, the greater the reward." He shrugs. "You scared?"

Lady Calaveras closes the distance between the two of them, grabbing the back of his neck. To his credit, Stiles doesn't even flinch but eyes her like he's challenging her to take the chance. She peers behind him and Scott frowns, unable to see what has her attention. Then she smirks. "Interesting scarring, boy."

Scott closes his eyes because this is when he knows. He knows in this second that Stiles' plan has worked. She's running her fingers across the veins of his Lichen scars (something that never truly went away, much to Stiles' dismay). Stiles remains stony at her touch.

"You would do that?" She asks calmly. "For your friend?"

Stiles snorts. "For my brother."

The moment the words are out of his mouth, she grabs the chains connecting his shackles and drags him forward, forcing Stiles to stumble forward. He stumbles in a way that only Stiles can – all limbs and no grace – falling in line. "You're gonna wish you never suggested this." She whispers in his ears.

Before Scott can do anything, before he can think, protest, or _something_, Stiles is being shoved from the room, the henchmen of the Calaveras exiting with them.

"Wait!" Stiles cries, the fear finally reaching his voice as he casts a terrified look over his shoulders. "Let me please say goodbye! I need to say goodbye!"

He struggles a little bit, but there's not much he can do with his wrists shackled. One of the hunters grab him and shove him forward, just as he screams, "Scotty! Scotty!"

Scott finds his voice and tugs against the electric collars on his wrists. "Stiles!" He gasps, trying to focus every ounce of strength within him in breaking free.

"Scotty! Don't let my dad—"

The door slams behind them, leaving the teens by themselves.

There's no more noise.

_Present Day_

Now all Scott has are the nightmares of that moment. All the Sheriff has is a photo. A photo on his desk of the family he once had. It's his favorite photo of the two of them. It was years ago – before Claudia ever was diagnosed or before the supernatural was anything more than a show on the CW. Claudia had Stiles wrapped in a hug and of course, being Stiles and his endless fit of movement, he was desperately trying to escape. But it's a beautiful candid shot of his wife looking down at him and Stiles smiling because, well, it was his _mom_ and Stiles was always fiercely loyal to those he loved. The sun peeked over their shoulders and the Sheriff can remember thinking he never saw a picture so beautiful in his life.

And now he's the only one left.

He scrubs his hands down his unshaven face – he hates to admit that he let himself go the past year, but not to the extent he could've. Every time he reaches for the bottle of Jack, he sees Stiles' disapproving face staring at him. It always causes him to close the liquor cabinet.

This day started like any other day. With him dragging his ass out of bed, thinking longingly of retirement and a world where werewolves weren't a thing. He arrived five minutes early – enough time to get a cup of coffee and stare wistfully at the donuts on the counter. He fills out a few reports before driving around Beacon Hills simply for the hell of it because, in the grand scheme of things, people going seven miles over the speed limit isn't all that critical anymore.

He's back at his desk for lunch, just unwrapping his sandwich when he hears a commotion outside his office doors. He peers questioningly at the closed door before him, debating whether he wants to get involved. A part of him wants to remain on this side of the door where things are calm and quiet.

It doesn't seem like he's allowed to because within a few minutes, Deputy Parrish is barging into his office, his eyes wide. The Sheriff sets down his sandwich. "Oh crap," he breathes with a huff. "What now?"

"Okay, Sheriff?" Parrish says softly. "You need to remain calm."

It never occurred to the Sheriff that he shouldn't be calm in the first place, which makes him all the more weary. This probably meant he should be freaking out about something. "What happened?" He asks again, but Parrish doesn't get any more comfortable. It's odd to see him so out of sorts – Parrish always maintained a level head in even the most terrifying of situations.

"Sir, I need you to understand that he isn't himself. You need to stay calm and professional, even though I know you're going to be wanting to do other things—"

"What in God's name are you talking about, Parrish? Just spit it out!" The Sheriff snaps, not panicked but more annoyed.

Then he hears it and stills.

_"__I swear to God, she's registered!"_

He knows that voice.

_"__She's registered, I don't have my paperwork with me, but can't you tell by the vest? I mean, it's not like you can easily get one of these!"_

The Sheriff's eyes widen. "No," he breathes, Parrish nothing but a blurred form in front of him, blocking his path. "No."

The Sheriff roughly shoves past him, sprinting out of his office. "Sheriff!" is the half-hearted plea behind him, but the Sheriff pays Parrish no mind anymore. He has to see it. He has to.

And then he does.

It feels like the entire world stops.

He's there. His boy is there. Stiles is standing against the counter of the police station, pinching the bridge of his nose like the cops that are gaping at him are offending him in some way. Everyone is just staring and clearly Stiles is taking that for something else because he's snapping, "Please, I just need directions and I'll be out of your hair! I promise!"

"Stiles!" The Sheriff cries, sprinting over to where his son is – standing tall and in one piece and _alive_ – and brings him into a bone-crushing hug.

Parrish runs into the room. "Sheriff…" he warns again, but he can't imagine why.

"You're crushing me," Stiles huffs underneath the Sheriffs arms, prodding the man's shoulders. "Please get off."

The Sheriff manages to untangle himself from the teenager, his eyes wide. "Stiles?" He breathes, his brain spinning out of control so that he can't entirely process what is going on. His son should be hugging him back. He should be crying. Hell, the Sheriff has already started. Something isn't making sense. "Stiles?" he tries again.

The teen doesn't acknowledge the name, peering around. He must feel the Sheriff's eyes on him and then he coughs awkwardly. "Oh sorry – gesundheit." The kid remarks, turning his attention back to the cop behind the desk. "I just need directions." He states again.

The Sheriff's chest crumbles in a way he's not sure if he'll be able to survive from. The cop doesn't respond, so Stiles gives an exasperated sigh. "Okay, can someone please tell me what's going on? Because I really need to get to Beacon Hills High School before they close. I start on Monday and I have to sign a shit ton of paperwork and I'm gonna be late. Is it because of her? Because she has her service vest on and she's on duty so it should be fine, right? Plus, you have police dogs that are working here, so it's not much different."

The Sheriff blinks, the kid a flurry of words and movement, talking so fast. God, he'd missed that. He couldn't believe how much he missed barely understanding what Stiles was talking about.

But he hadn't even noticed the dog at his side. A beautiful German Shepard remains at the teen's feet, a bright blue vest on his chest. In stitched letters are the words, "Please don't pet me, I'm working!" If the Sheriff didn't think this moment could get any worse…

He appraises the kid, desperately trying to figure out what's happening. That _is_ his son. There's no doubt about that. That _is_ Stiles. He dreamed about this moment. He counted endless days for this moment. He prepared in all sorts of ways for this. He prepared for if he was found alive or if he was found dead. He prepared for hostage situations, for comas, for PTSD.

But what he didn't prepare for was his kid returning and having _no recollection_ of him. That was a pain he couldn't explain. It took his breath away with the thought of not being able to hold his son, take him home, never let go. But there was more at play here.

And he had a service dog.

That was a Pandora's box the Sheriff wasn't sure he was in the mental capacity of tackling at the moment.

Instead, he calls upon ever ounce of strength he possesses and straightens up. He can tell everyone's waiting – waiting for his lead, for his reaction, for his action. "Sorry about that," he states gruffly, blinking away the tears in his eyes. "How can I help you?"

Stiles finally turns to him, relief washing over his face when it appears someone will help him. "Oh, thank you! And man, you guys must be a super friendly police department because I swear, that was like, my third hug since I got through the door. Or is it another form of torture? Who knows? I mean—" Stiles cuts himself off, shaking his head and blinking furiously. "Sorry, I took a lot of Adderall today because I was a little nervous about going to the school."

The Sheriff can actually _feel_ everyone take in a breath.

It takes all his resolve to maintain an air of professionalism. "No worries, someone close to me used to take it. I understand."

Stiles breaks into a grin. "Can't really understand it until you experience it, sort of thing, you know?" He laughs. "Anyways, I just need directions to the high school. My first day is Monday and I want to make sure everything's in order."

"No problem," the Sheriff states, proud his voice is only wavering a little. "It's about four blocks away. Take a left of Cherry and a right on Maple."

"Got a thing for trees, do we?" Stiles laughs, absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck. The action is so familiar that the Sheriff has to look away. "Thanks. I'll be out of your hair."

"What's her name?" The Sheriff asks before he can stop himself.

Stiles hesitates, peering down at the dog. "Claudia," he says and in that moment, the world shatters.

The Sheriff needs to get out. The air is too thick and he doesn't know what to do. He knows grabbing Stiles and taking him home or to the hospital or to Deaton would be a _horrible_ idea, but it's the only one he can currently think of. "W-What made you choose that?" He manages to get out.

Stiles shrugs. "I've always liked the name. Feels like home."

Home.

It's a dangerous thing to think about when all the Sheriff wants to do is grab his son's arms so he's finally home once again.

"It's a nice name," the Sheriff chokes. "Do you mind me asking what she's for?"

Stiles finally gets uncomfortable. Wincing, he mumbles, "Sorry, that's kinda personal."

The Sheriff puts his hands up, trying to shove down the intense curiosity and desire to protect the teen in front of him. "I'm sorry if I overstepped. So you're new to Beacon Hills?"

The uncomfortable look fades away and Stiles grins. "Yeah, starting somewhere new, which I think is good? I dunno. I suppose we'll find out!"

The Sheriff frowns, feigning concern for him being by himself. "Where are your parents? Shouldn't they be there at the school with you?"

Stiles shrugs. "Don't have any. I've been in and out of foster homes for like, the past seven months. Couldn't handle all of this awesomeness." He says gesturing to himself. "Well, more like, couldn't handle the undiagnosed ADHD teen."

The Sheriff wants to shoot something.

"Don't worry – I got diagnosed and calmed down! Er… a bit. Anyway, I applied for one of those federal programs where you can live underaged somewhere if you fill out a billion forms and promise not to turn the apartment into a harem or meth house or something like that. So I'm doing my civic duty and going through all the responsible steps for school. I just needed to get somewhere new and I picked up a map of California and closed my eyes. My finger landed at Beacon Hills."

Stiles finishes with a smile, but it falters when he sees everyone either staring at him or the Sheriff. He laughs uncomfortably. "Oh, sorry. I mean, 'I don't have parents Random Stranger.' Sorry about the verbal vomit. I have this tendency to keep on talking unless someone stops me. Partly the reason why I got kicked out of so many foster homes." He says with a chuckle, and then his eyes widen when he realizes what he said. "Oh God – someone just stop me! Sorry! I-I'm gonna get out of your hair before you decide that arresting me will be easier."

"We would never arrest someone innocent." Parrish's voice comes from behind him and the Sheriff realizes he's staring at Stiles like a man mesmerized.

Which is totally true, but probably not the best expression for someone who doesn't recognize him.

"Good to know." Stiles smiles. "Thanks for the help…"

"Stilinski," the Sheriff practically shouts. "John Stilinski."

"I should probably call you Sheriff," Stiles laughs, taking his hand.

_I would prefer you call me 'Dad.'_

But then, Stiles drops his hand as soon as he takes it, like it's burned him in some way. He frowns, blinking. "You name sounds familiar," he says softly. "Although, you'd think I'd remember something like 'Stilinski,' right? Polish?"

The Sheriff tries not to grimace, but he isn't sure how successful he is. "Yeah."

"Well then," Stiles says with his hands in his pockets. "This has been sufficiently weird for one day. I'm just gonna head out. Thank you for the help."

Stiles opens the door, hesitating only to wave.

"Wait!" the Sheriff calls, but he isn't sure what he wants to ask. There are too many questions rolling around in his head. Somehow, he settles on, "You didn't tell me your name."

Stiles beams. "The name on my fake ID is Miguel." He chuckles and then coughs when he looks around. "Right, totally not the right audience for that joke. I'm totally kidding, I don't have a fake ID."

The Sheriff doesn't believe him for a second.

"My name is Stuart." He says with a genuine smile. "So I'll see you around?"

"Sure."

"Hopefully not due to my miscreant behavior."

The Sheriff can't help but snort at that.

But then the door shuts and he's gone, leaving the Sheriff with a gaping hole in his chest that he didn't realize would form at the sight of _seeing_ his son. Once he's lumbered down the road, the Sheriff takes a breath and looks at the penetrating gazes of those in his precinct.

"I have a phone call to make." He says, slamming the door to his office behind him.

**A/N: So here we are! Yes – it's a memory!Loss fic. Which means I get to do a combination of silly!Stiles and angsty!Stiles, which I love. Lots of questions for the prologue, I suppose! Why he has a service dog, what happened in the five months he wasn't in foster care, why he doesn't remember, etc. I'm going to keep naming him 'Stiles,' even though he thinks his name is 'Stuart,' simply for understanding purposes.**

**Please leave a note if you have the time!**


	2. Chapter 1: Tabula Rasa

**Wow! Thank you for such an enthusiastic response! I think I'll enjoy writing this one because it won't be all angst all the time, simply because he doesn't remember anything. So there will be fun, sarcastic Stiles too! (whom I love)**

**Let's get these shenanigans started, shall we?**

Chapter 1

_Tabula Rasa_

By the time everyone's present, the tension is too thick to breathe normally. Scott's been on edge ever since he received the Sheriff's phone call – the phone call that changed everything about him. He spent over a year carrying around the guilt of that day. The day where he could do nothing but watch as his best friend – his _brother_ – was taken away from him. As a trade.

For him.

Scott would be lying if he said it didn't change him. It changed him the same way Allison's death had. It made him a little harder, a little more paranoid. It made him clutch his loved ones a little closer and be less receptive to the idea of helping supernatural creatures who came to him in need. Would it be worth the risk? Worth the risk of potentially losing another member of the pack?

No, simply. No, it was not.

So when he received a phone call from the Sheriff, he felt everything in his chest shatter again. Because he'd given up. He'd given up on his brother. He tucked Stiles in the box in the back of his mind with Allison, locking it tightly so he never had to think of it again.

Now Pandora's Box had been unleashed.

John is rubbing his hands together sheepishly as everyone stares at him longingly, so desperate for it to be confirmed in person. That Scott hadn't hallucinated or misunderstood. That Stiles was _back_.

"So," the Sheriff coughs. "as you all know, I asked you to my house to discuss the matter of…" He closes his eyes and Scott can see the effort it takes him to even say his son's name. "_Stiles_."

"Is he really back?" Malia, with all her tactlessness, asks. "He's here?"

Scott growls lightly, not able to summon the patience he usually had with the once-feral werecoyote. "Let him talk, Malia." He warns.

The Sheriff recoils at Scott's penetrating gaze. "Yes," he says softly, wincing when everyone shuffles at the word. "But, he… he…"

"Doesn't remember anything or anyone." Malia finishes.

_"__MALIA!"_

"What?" Malia remains entirely unfazed at the several people yelling at her. "He's clearly having a hard time with all of this. What the problem with helping him finish his sentences?"

Scott sighs, shaking his head. "So what does this mean?" He asks, staring at the glass of water he has no intention of actually drinking. He looks at Deaton, who's taken his place of stoically brooding in the corner. "What can we do?"

Deaton pushes himself from the wall, stepping to be more of the group. "This isn't a supernatural amnesia, Scott. More likely, it's a PTSD repression. This isn't something we can simply fix with some herbs and magic. This is completely, entirely human."

Scott figured as much, but it didn't keep him from being disappointed. "But still," he presses on. "What do we _do_? He's going to come to school on Monday. People don't know what happened. We've got an entire school who thinks he's Stiles and he has a whole history here. We can't just convince everyone to pretend that he isn't who he is."

"I've contacted the school and a few neurosurgeons regarding this," the Sheriff huffs, his voice filled with pain. "Medically, they agree that we shouldn't push him to remember who he is. They say whatever happened makes his mental health state fragile. Suddenly shoving an entire history he doesn't remember could be… overwhelming to say the least."

It's clear that while the Sheriff hated this news and probably wanted nothing more than to throttle the men saying he couldn't be around his son, he understood.

"The school knows the situation. The teachers are under strict instruction to refer to him as Stuart and nothing more." The Sheriff sighs. "About the students, I don't know. We obviously can't put a PSA about this."

"We'll be there." Lydia pipes up, unnaturally quiet in the back, leaning by Derek as if she was trying to hide in his shadow. Very un-Lydia like, but Scott knows not to push it. "We'll make sure the first group of friends he makes is us. We can make sure that people leave him alone."

Everyone stares at her, her cool confidence that had been missing for the past year. "We can do this," she assures.

"I don't get it," Malia says. "Why can't we just _tell_ him that he's Stiles and prove it to him? I mean, we could shift in front of him, show him photos – I don't get what the big deal is."

"The big deal is," Scott says through gritted teeth, feeling his face flush until he knows his eyes are burning red.

"The big deal is they're concerned for a psychotic break." Melissa McCall cuts in, putting her hand on her son's shoulders. She gives away her air of 'mom' for one of 'nurse,' her eyes caring, but hard on Malia. "We don't know what happened in the past fourteen months. We don't know why he's forgotten everything and more importantly, why he's showed up now. We don't want to do anything that'll make him hurt himself or those around him. Matters of the brain are particularly difficult. The brain is a sensitive thing and needs to be treated with care. If he thinks his name is Stuart and he's nothing more than a foster kid, that's what he created for himself to make him feel safe. And we need to respect his way of healing."

Everyone's gaze falls to the floor and she smiles at them. "The brain is still a mysterious thing. There is a possibility he'll regain his memories, but we don't want to push him to that point. Just take heart that he's _here_, he's alive, and he's in one piece."

She's looking at the Sheriff when she says that.

Because Scott knows, whatever he's feeling, whatever the whirlwind of torment, frustration, guilt, and elation he's feeling, it probably doesn't hold a candle to a man who cannot celebrate the return of his son. "He has a service dog," the Sheriff fills the silence with and everyone looks at him, appalled.

"What?" Scott asks, panicked. "What for?"

"He wouldn't say – said it was personal." The Sheriff's voice is soft. "But it looked like he was fine. Totally normal. He even said the name on his fake ID was Miguel."

There's a snort from the corner of the room and everyone stares at Derek. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes crinkle in a soft way that Derek usually feels the urge to hide.

"Are you sure it's him?" Deaton asks suddenly. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask – are you sure it's him? Are you sure it's not someone who happens to look like him? I apologize Sheriff, but I have to ask. Grief does strange things."

The only thing that the Sheriff seems to want to do is take out his gun and pistol whip the vet. Scott isn't entirely sure which side he's on.

But the Sheriff doesn't. Instead, his hands twitch at his sides and he sighs. "His service dog's name is Claudia," he says through gritted teeth and Scott stills in a way that he's unsure of how to get out of.

Because this is real. This is totally real.

As much as he didn't want to say anything, he was afraid. Afraid that the Sheriff _was_ projecting, afraid that this really _was_ a kid named Stuart with the unfortunate genetics that looked similarly to Stiles, who just so happened to come across a traumatized and grieving father.

But this is real.

"And if that isn't enough to convince you," the Sheriff snaps venomously. "We ran his dental records from the foster care system across Stiles and they were an exact match. This is, medically, my son."

Deaton, who's stony visage didn't change (although Scott isn't quite sure what it would take to get extreme emotion out of the vet), stands straighter. "Alright then. Then I have some work that I have to do."

Scott stands, simply because his pull to unify and comfort those around him is strong. He has to push his terrified thoughts out of his head and instead focus on the prying eyes of those of his pack. "We can do this," he starts off, his voice unsteady. He takes a breath to calm himself down. "Because he's back and he's alive. And we have each other. We can do this. Just be careful what you say around him," he eyes Malia at his comment. "And make sure that one of _us_ is the first person to interact with him when he gets to school. We have to make sure we're his first friends. Other people could do more damage."

"I'm sure you can do that, Scott," Melissa says with a soft smile. "You two have been inseparable since you were five. Something like that doesn't just go away."

"Except for the past year," Scott mutters, his eyes down cast.

His mom reaches over, grabs his hand, and intertwines their fingers. She doesn't respond to his comment, but he knows that she's trying to comfort him. It helps, sort of. Not in that he totally believes her, but that it's nice to have his mother there.

"We can do this." He states again, mainly for himself. "We can."

**XXX**

After the horrible and wonderful meeting at the Sheriff's house, Lydia decides that there's nothing more that she wants than some ice cream. She needs to mentally prepare herself for Monday and whatever that day will bring. To be honest, she isn't even sure she can handle it.

Because she moved on.

Well, 'moved on.'

She took everything that reminded her of Stiles – the notes he used to write her in class, asking her if she thought someone was supernatural or if she's won a Field's Medal already, the flannel shirt he accidentally left at her house after an all-nighter of researching, the earrings he gave her a few Christmas' ago that slowly became her favorite pair, the drawing he made for her instead of doing his Econ homework, and so many other small items – put them in a box, duct-taped said box, and shoved it on the top shelf of her closet. She knew, logically, that the healthy thing to do was throw everything away, burn it, so she'd never succumb to weakness and stare at the items while the hole in her chest reopened. But she wasn't strong enough for that.

Because, as much as she hated to admit it, she couldn't ignore his presence in her life any more than she could ignore the fact that she was a Banshee. And trying to forget him would be stupid and unsuccessful.

It didn't take a genius to figure that one out.

Which is why she stands in front of the ice cream section at the grocery store, debating the merits of chocolate versus strawberry, thinking about the hidden box in the top of her closet.

"Claudia, need I remind you that you are still working, you stupid, wonderful spaz!"

Lydia freezes.

Because she knows. She knows exactly what she's going to see when she turns to look at the source of the voice. She knows _who_ she'll see. But she thought she had all weekend to prepare. She needed retail and ice-cream therapy to prepare.

Weakness gets the better of her and Lydia turns her head to see the tall teen struggling to maintain his grocery cart and the antsy dog at his side. The sight of him takes her breath away.

And suddenly she'd furious for Deaton ever questioning the Sheriff if it really was his son.

Because of_course_ it's him.

Stiles wraps the leash around his hand a few times, glaring at the mischievous dog as she leads him further down the aisle. He's taller – or maybe her imagination is playing tricks on her – and broader. It's strange, but he's not wearing flannel at all. Just a simple white t-shirt and some blue jeans, fitting him unlike the baggy mess he used to wear to high school. There are a few more lines on his face than she remembers, but there's an air of cool maturity that she doesn't recognize.

She is _so fucked._

Then a cold nose is pressing itself against her leg and she yelps, torn from her stupor.

"Oh my _God_." Stiles breathes, exactly the way he used to say it – full of dramatics and life. "I am so sorry. Would you believe me if I said that she is a professional? And _not_," he casts a dark look at the dog who simply looks like she doesn't care at all what he thinks. "Supposed to be harassing beautiful redheads in the grocery store?"

That sentence is enough to take her breath away right there.

Stiles must take her silence as annoyance, because he laughs nervously. "I guess redhead is probably not the right color. I'd say you're more of a strawberry blonde."

Lydia chokes, nearly dropping the basket in her hand.

Stiles looks _mortified_. "Oh God, sorry! I have this talking thing. I'm still trying to adjust to my medication. My doctors said I took to it surprisingly well for someone who's not taken Adderall before, but clearly it's not working fast enough because I am a Grade-A idiot." He seems to realize what he's said. "Shit! Wow, good job Stuart, telling some random person that you're on medication. That's a good way to make sure no one ever talks to you in the town." He brings his eyes to the ground. "First to the Sheriff, now to this person," he glares at Claudia, who's lying happily at his feet. "Oh, how I hate you."

"Lydia," she says suddenly, drawing Stiles out of his circle of self-loathing.

"Huh?"

"My name is Lydia. And my hair _is_ strawberry blonde." She says with a smile.

This is why high school exists. To practice pretending to be fine to people when you really are not.

She holds out a hand and Stiles stares at it suspiciously. "Wow," he says with a shrug after a moment and takes her hand. "Everyone in this town is like, crazy friendly. I'm pretty sure if I behaved this way anywhere else, they would've locked me up because of all the weirdness."

Lydia laughs easily and that scares her. "You'd be surprised at the amount of weirdness we see in this town."

"You don't say?" Stiles beams at her and it almost takes her breath away. "Well then, it looks like I've finally found my people."

"It looks like you have."

One sentence and her chest aches.

She can see him eyeing his grocery list, but she's not ready for this interaction to be finished. "Are you new?" She asks before she can help herself.

"What – oh, yeah!" Stiles jerks from his intent speculation of the groceries he still needed. She peeks at it and it's exactly the same. Stiles did most of the grocery shopping in his house, seeing as he cooked the most, and Lydia remembers making fun of him for it. It's color-coded and written in a weird shorthand that she's positive only he understands. And here it is again. "I just moved here. I'm starting as a senior on Monday."

"You don't say," Lydia says with a plastered grin. "I happen to be a senior at Beacon Hills myself."

"Brethren!" Stiles exclaims, whipping his hands up and dropping Claudia's leash. She doesn't do anything – she seems perfectly content lying in between the two of them.

Lydia can't help it. Against her instincts, she laughs.

"So, at least you'll recognize one face at the school."

"Trust me, it's a face I'm not soon to forget." He says with a grin.

Lydia claims the tingling she's feeling is due to the fact she's been standing in the freezer aisle with a dress on.

"Well, see you on Monday, Lydia." Stiles says with a flourish. "Hopefully my dog will leave you alone."

"I hope she doesn't," Lydia finds herself saying without being able to stop it.

Then she doesn't regret it because Stiles gives her a smile that seems to stretch his face, simply to make room for more excitement. "Well then," he says. "Maybe I won't be so hard on her next time."

He pushes his cart farther down the aisle, Claudia hopping on his side. Lydia stares after him, smiling when he turns one final time to smile at her, as if he isn't sure if that actually just happened. Lydia watches him leave – for research purposes only, of course – and frowns. He sort of limps as he walks away, tilting a little to the right.

She shakes her head. She has to be imagining it.

She grabs two choices and checks out, turning her car on in a flourish. But she doesn't go home. She drives a familiar road, stopping when she reaches the McCall house. Lydia found herself taking refuge in this house more than she cared to admit. Ms. McCall isn't even surprised when she opens the door to the redhead. "He's in the living room." Is all she says.

Lydia rushes into the living room, clutching the plastic bags filled with ice cream. Scott is slumped on the couch, staring at the television, but Lydia knows he wouldn't be able to tell her what he's watching if she asked. He straightens when he catches sight of her, tracking the bags in her hands to her distressed posture. He waits.

"I just saw Stiles in the store." She states, her voice catching.

Scott's eyes widen. Then he controls himself and jumps off the couch. "I'll get the spoons, you put on the _Notebook_."

If you asked Lydia a couple years ago if she would be close friends with Scott McCall, she would've asked who that was.

Funny how life is.

**XXX**

The pack arrives at school an hour early. Scott arrives with his hands filled with bags, setting them down on the picnic table they strategically placed themselves at; it's in the front of the courtyard where they can see everyone, but close enough so they can rush to Stiles if they need to. Scott pulls out the aluminum foil-wrapped plates and set them in front of everyone. "My mom cooks when she's stressed out, so she made us breakfast, " he says with a shrug. "We're here super early, so we may as well eat."

No one moves to serve themselves and Scott sighs. "Guys, we have to be normal. Stiles will notice if we're freaking out."

"How are we going about this anyway?" Liam asks, taking Scott's speech as approval to start eating. Scott thought that accidentally turning a freshman would be the worst thing he ever did – sure, it was difficult to handle the kid without Stiles constantly telling him what to do and he stumbled more often than he cared to admit – but he was alright. He was kinda like the little brother Scott always wanted, but more angry. He grabs some eggs off a plate and a fork. "We can't just tell him to sit with us, that'd be weird."

"Well, we kinda got lucky Lydia ran into him at the store," Scott says with a wince, trying to shoot her an apologetic look as she stares at the food before her. "We kinda can now, since she's the only person he knows. And knowing Stiles, he probably was more than smitten."

"He doesn't even know who I am, Scott," she says quietly.

"We never forget our first love," Scott states before he can stop himself, his eyes falling to the table. "It's engrained within you. Like a tattoo." He looks at the bands at his arm, shaking the thoughts of Allison from his mind.

"What if he's weird?" Malia asks with a mouthful of food. "What if he's changed?"

"He hasn't." Lydia states, a little harder than she intended. "It's him."

Scott isn't sure which would be worse.

People start to filter in, students casting looks at the group of them quietly eating breakfast. They mutter things as they pass because _of course_ it's already got through the school that Stiles is back and doesn't remember who he is. Scott is annoyed, but he figures it's for the best because maybe people will act around him in a bit of discretion.

Then, Scott freezes.

Stiles is walking across the school courtyard, one hand on a dog's harness and the other shouldering his backpack. He's laughing in a carefree way that Scott hadn't seen him do long before he was taken by the Calaveras. His walk is a little off kilter – well, _more_ off kilter than usual – which makes Scott frown. But that's not the most disconcerting thing.

The most disconcerting this is that someone is talking with him. How did their plan fail so quickly?

Scott lets out a breath when he realizes the person is Danny, possibly the best person outside of their group he could've stumbled upon. When Danny revealed he knew about the supernatural, Scott panicked for days. But he'd become incredibly helpful, especially in Stiles' absence with computer hacking and other things they needed. Most of all, he was a calming source to them all, keeping them grounded when they lost it a bit.

Humans are important.

Danny leads Stiles over to the group of them. The relief must be apparent on Scott's face because Danny's eyes crinkle with amusement when he reaches them. "These are my friends," he says, waving his arms to introduce them. Everyone stills and Scott can tell that they're probably looking at Stiles in a way that so _does not_ scream subtle, but there's really nothing he can do about it when he's certain he's looking at the teen the same way. Because he looks exactly the same.

Maybe a few more lines are around his eyes and he gained some muscle, but this is _Stiles_.

And he's looking at them as if he's trying to decide whether to laugh or run for his life.

God, this was a mess.

"That's Scott, Kira, Liam, Malia, and Lydia."

"Oh, I know Lydia, we go way back," Stiles says with a smirk, winking at her. Scott can't help it – he laughs. He laughs in a way he hadn't laughed in a while because that is an action that is so inherently Stiles, it makes him want to cry. He looks at Scott sheepishly, but grins in the end.

Lydia rolls her eyes.

Danny, however, is confused. Stiles points down to his dog. "Claudia thought it was a good idea that I made a friend before school started and invaded her personal space like a creeper. But it worked out in the long run."

"How does it feel to be back in Beacon Hills?" Malia blurts out and Scott shuts his eyes with exasperation.

"Back?" Stiles repeats, frowning. "Sorry, I've never been here before."

"Ow! Lydia, why did you kick me?" Malia growls.

Lydia glares at her.

Scott sighs. This is going great.

"Sorry about that, they're in a fight." Scott lies, although it could be considered somewhat true. The two tolerated each other, at best. He stands, putting his hand out. "Nice to meet you…?"

"Stuart." Stiles says with a smile, taking his hand. He frowns once he does, shaking his head sheepishly. "Are you sure that this town is named Beacon Hills and not Déjà vu Central? 'Cus I got some serious problems, I nearly got arrested for gaping at the Sheriff like a moron." He chuckles. Stiles lets go of Scott's hand once he realized they were still shaking. "Dude, sorry. This place has got me all mixed up for some reason. I swear I'm a normal person."

Somebody snorts and Scott throws a glare over his shoulder.

"Would you believe me if I said that I'm much better than my first impression?" Stiles laughs. "I'm like a wine – it takes a while for me to taste good or whatever." He scrunches his face up. "No, wait, that wasn't what I meant. No tasting. There will be no tasting of Stuart in any capacity. Wait… I don't want to go out, giving ultimatums—"

Scott bursts out laughing, clapping a hand on his back. "Don't worry, we're used to it. Had a friend once like you," he states before he can stop himself. His grin falters. "I mean, you'll fit in here just fine."

Stiles smiles at that. "Thank God this town is filled with a bunch of weirdos." He mutters, shaking his head. "But the tasting thing probably should be off limits since it's illegal and all."

Scott knows she's going to say something before she even does. "It's illegal to have sex with you?" Malia asks.

Stiles chokes on air. "Yes, because I am very dangerous." He laughs. "No, it's the whole ward of the state thing. When you're in the foster system, it's a rule. A rule most people ignore, but seeing as I don't want to lose my home, I should probably follow it." He leans closer to Scott like he used to, but not bothering to keep his voice low. "Who knew the government is the biggest cockblock of all time, amirite?"

All Scott can do is laugh when Stiles realizes what he's said. "Wow, I am literally the worst!" He exclaims. "I don't even know you guys and I'm talking about how the government cockblocks me. You'd think I'd be too embarrassed to function, but I'm maxed out!" Stiles groans, rubbing his hands down his chest. "Sorry dude, you have a nice face. Uh – what I mean is that it's trustworthy? God, shut up Stuart," he grumbles.

"Nah, dude, it's fine." Scott says with a genuine smile. He _wants_ Stiles to keep talking like this. He _wants _him to trust him in this way. "Makes for an interesting morning. What's your class schedule like?"

Stiles frowns at him. "Either you guys are the nicest people on the planet or my face is much more adorable than I ever gave it credit for."

"Definitely your face."

"Why I ever question my looks and charm – I'll never know." Stiles laughs. He pulls a schedule out of his pocket and shows it to Scott.

Scott breathes easily. "We have English together first period. Why don't I walk you there and show you around?"

"Really?" Stiles asks, eyes shining. "Bro, you're the best! And here I thought I'd be forced to sit in the bathroom and eat by myself after scaring everyone off!" He fist pumps in the air.

"Why don't you have P.E.?" Scott asks, frowning at the schedule. They have everything the same except this one class. "Isn't it required?"

"Medical problem," Stiles says with a shrug. "I have a waiver."

"A waiver?" Scott asks.

He must notice Scott's gaze fall onto Claudia, because Stiles says, "Not her problem to deal with. If that was the case, the poor dog would be overworked. She can't help me with everything." He says with a grin, but Scott can tell he's entirely uncomfortable.

A bell rings across the courtyard and everyone looks up. "Class?" Stiles asks, eyeing Scott like he's not sure if the teen was being serious.

"Class." Scott states, motioning Stiles to follow him.

Stiles calls, "Nice to meet you all!" behind his shoulder as they leave, the two walking away.

Scott tries not to space out over the fact that his best friend is standing next to him, chatting his ear off in a way that he's missed. Even though he feels like it's invading his privacy, Scott tries to sniff the air around him, desperately trying to pinpoint what would cause him to need the dog at his side. But he doesn't smell sick. All he smells is a bit of metal as he walks down the hall.

"Dude, everyone's staring at us," Stiles says as they make their way through the hall. Scott groans because, well, it's not subtle in the slightest. "Are you like, 'the popular kid' in school or something?"

Thank God that's where his mind went. "I'm captain of the Lacrosse team, which is sorta the equivalent of football around here. It's a big deal."

Stiles whistles. "Then what are you doing hanging around a weirdo like me? Should you be like, making out with some hottie in the corner or signing autographs? I am legally not allowed to get any – let me live vicariously through you, dude!"

Scott snorts. It's almost frightening how quickly the two fall back into line. It's easy as it ever was to talk to Stiles. He thought he had to look after the rest of his pack, making sure they didn't do anything stupid.

He really should be looking after himself. "I think you are giving me more credit that I deserve," he settles on, glaring at people who are staring at them.

"Clearly not, seeing as everyone just looks at you in awe."

They're really looking at Stiles, but Scott's not going to point this out. "You should try out for the team," Scott says. "Then they could all get up in your business."

Stiles bursts out laughing. "I don't think people 'getting up in my business' is a good thing, buddy. Besides, I can't do P.E., I'm not going to be able to play competitive lacrosse. I've never played before so I'd just be an embarrassment."

Scott frowns. "Lydia has a thing for lacrosse players," he tries because he's shooting in the dark at this point.

Stiles looks over at him, appalled. "Government cockblock, dude!" is all he manages.

Scott has to laugh. "What?" He asks innocently.

"I already have a government cockblock, there's no point in tempting. I'm only human, you know."

Scott shudders with how much he knows this fact. They stop in front of their English class, Stiles frowning. "You're easy to talk to," he says suddenly.

Scott stares. "I've been told," he blurts out for lack of anything else to say.

"It's weird," Stiles continues and he gets this look in his eyes like he's trying to figure everything out. Scott holds his breath, unsure of what's coming next when Stiles shrugs. "But a good weird. Thanks for showing me around."

"Anytime," Scott breathes. "Seriously. Being new sucks."

Stiles smiles. "So far it hasn't been too bad."

**A/N: I ****_swear_****there's a plot in here somewhere. I just get distracted by feelings. ALL OF THE FEELINGS.**

**Please leave a note if you have time!**


	3. Chapter 2: Of Dogs and Men

**Hey lovelies!**

**So, I have to say that I am a right idiot and a couple people pointed out my ridiculous math in the prologue. I swear I'm not a moron, I meant to write 'minutes,' not 'seconds.' I need to go and fix it because whoopsidoodle. *facepalm***

**I really appreciate your lovely notes and comments – so much love! Like I said, there ****_is_****a plot here somewhere (I may take some creative liberties on the whole dead pool idea and fashion it to my own thing), but I was just like, "FEELINGS RELATIONSHIPS LALALALALALAL!"**

**Here we go!**

Chapter 2

_Of Dogs and Men_

"Okay, I thought it was you, dude, but I'm reevaluating that statement." Stiles says as he sets his tray next to Scott like it was a perfectly normal thing to be doing for someone he just met. Scott couldn't stop the smile that stretched across his face from that action. "Because, I don't want you to think I'm totally self-involved, but I think they're all staring at me."

Stiles turns around as if to prove a point and people quick turn their heads like they weren't conspicuously gaping at him moments before. Scott groans quietly, wishing he could somehow convey to the entire school that they are making matters five million times worse with all their staring. But, unfortunately, there was no one expression that correctly depicted this frustration, so he settled on ignoring them.

Stiles shuffles a little uncomfortably under their gazes, scooting to the end of the bench so that he could settle Claudia next to him, who promptly collapses at his feet. She army-crawls a way under the bench so that only her tail is sticking out. He gazes, puzzled, at those around him and everyone at the table looks to Scott.

"They already think I'm a total freak," Stiles groans, running his hands down his face. "I actually think that's a World Record for how quickly someone has been made an outcast. Someone should check it. Seriously, Google that shit. Someone, get out your phone and check what the Guinness World Record is."

"You're being ridiculous," Lydia snorts casually, as if she's talking directly to the old Stiles, and not carefully to 'Stuart.' She seems to realize this the same moment Scott does because she catches his gaze and sighs. "You're new. People stare. Get over it."

"Oh, get over it! Get _over_ it," Stiles moans, rolling his eyes at her. "Why didn't I ever think of that? Just get over it, wow I'm all better now. Thanks for that wonderful advice. I'll just pocket that in the part of my brain for future reference."

"Don't be such a drama queen," Lydia huffs. "You know I'm right. I'm always right."

"Listen, lady, there's no way I would have prior knowledge of that," Stiles says, waving his fork at her, luckily missing the way her face falls as he does so. "But I do have a feeling that you aren't the kind of person who is wrong often." He shrugs. "But is it really the new kid thing? Because this must be the most boring town ever if some random person is so incredibly interesting to you all."

Nobody responds to that.

"Yup, it must be the freak status, then." He grumbles, poking at his food. "Freak status because of the dog. First the government cockblocks me and now Claudia makes me the freak of the school. It's like the Universe wants to dampen my quest to have any game whatsoever."

"I think you think the Universe cares a lot more for you than it actually does," Malia says, not even looking at him. "You're probably pretty insignificant on the scale of things."

Stiles looks at her, a relatively startled expression on his face.

"Malia!" Scott hisses.

"Naw, bro, it's okay." Stiles says, his expression changing to impressed. "It's good to have a metaphorical kick to the balls every once and a while to keep you humble."

He takes his sandwich from his tray and starts eating contentedly. He notices that no one else is talking and he looks up from his food. "Aren't you guys, like, friends? Shouldn't you be talking or something?"

This is going so terribly. Scott groans, taking a bite of his lunch in hopes that no one will make him talk first. But no one seems to be taking his lead. Than someone approaches.

Thank God for Danny.

Danny pushes his way onto the bench, seating himself across from Stiles with a casual smile. Scott marvels at how much better he is at this than everyone else. Danny smiles warmly at Stiles, asking, "So, how's your first couple classes, man?"

"Good! Besides everyone staring at me like I'm a sideshow, they're fine." He frowns. "Are the teachers used to working with kids with ADHD? Because I started to get a little ranty and they easily got me back on course. I mean, I had foster parents who couldn't do that."

Danny peeks at Scott out of the corner of his eye, but he's good at remaining composed. "Probably just experience with it in the past. Are you thinking about trying out for lacrosse? Tryouts are in a couple days."

Stiles shakes his head. "Naw, I can't do it. Never played before either." His tone suggests that he no longer wants to be on this topic. Instead, he reaches over to Danny's plate and grabs a handful of curly fries and shoves them into his mouth. Danny looks shocked for only a moment, but then his expression melts into something fond.

It's like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, it's just engrained within him.

Danny, once again the hero, breaks the impending awkward silence. "By the way, Scott, I looked over the hard drive that you wanted me to. I couldn't quite get the connection between everything, but here are the documents."

Danny shuffles through his backpack, unveiling some papers and handing them over.

Scott completely forgot that he'd asked Danny to do that. Stiles had not only interrupted his life, but also his focus. A few days before Stiles stumbled into the Police Department, Scott had been hearing about some disturbances in the peace around Beacon Hills. Ever since Stiles disappeared, the city had remained relatively supernaturally quiet – save for a few roaming Omegas that had stumbled upon the territory accidentally. But as for people trying to destroy everyone – they remained absent. It was nice.

That was, of course, until about a month ago.

It started small at first. Animals were dying at an unusual frequency in the forest – but due to traps and other man-made things. Seeing as it was out of hunting season, the Sheriff had asked Scott to come along one of his drives and see if he could sense anything.

He couldn't.

Which, of course, was all the more suspicious. Because even if someone had accidentally done it, there would be _something_. And the lack of _something_ made Scott sigh, knowing that someone was covering up that something, but he wasn't sure what it was. Of course.

Because asking for a normal Senior year would be too much.

So, he enlisted the help of Danny, seeing if there were any unusual correspondences going across the school network, to narrow down at least the students. There were a few outliers, which only made everyone more on edge. Then Stiles came.

Scott may not have a knack for putting pieces together like Stiles did, but he wasn't an idiot. This wasn't a coincidence in the slightest. He didn't know what it was yet, but it certainly wasn't anything good – past has proven that as much.

But as Danny reaches across the table to Scott, a hand swipes the papers from his grasp. Stiles takes them without an cursory request, staring at them intently. "Have some problem with network blocking, do we?" He asks, trying to get his straw without looking and failing miserably. "These encrypted passwords seem to be connected. Have you ever thought about doing a puzzle board for it?"

He finally realizes that everyone is staring at him and freezes.

"Oh God, I am so rude," he groans. "I don't know what's come over me in this town, I swear I'm not usually this bad. I don't know what's come over me." But his eyes still focus on the papers in front of him, like he can't help but stare. "But I'm right, you know. You need a good, old fashioned cork board and you need to connect the dots if you want to get anywhere with this."

Scott takes them from Stiles once he pitifully hands them over, his eyes still tracking the words as they pass between their hands. Scott wonders if it would be a good idea to even involve him in any of this, or if his best friend would be happier outside of it. He's not sure if he could even keep Stiles from it, even with his memories gone.

"If you want, you could come over to my house after school. We could go over some of our Chemistry homework and you could help me with all of this?" Scott says, trying to hide the intense amount of hope in his voice. "I could catch you up on some of the other stuff too." He says with a shrug that he hopes is casual. By the look on Danny's face, it's probably not.

Stiles hesitates and Scott tries not to take it too personally.

"Yeah, it's okay," Scott starts, staring at Kira in an attempt to hide his disappointment. "I mean, we—"

"I have to bring Claudia," Stiles says with a wince. "Sorry. I know a bunch of people don't like dogs and have problems with them, but I need her—"

"Dude, we are dog people!" Scott exclaims. Everyone at the table bursts into laughter and poor Stiles is staring at them like he missed the incredibly funny (and ironic) punchline. "We are such big dog people, you don't even understand. You can bring her, it's not a big deal at all."

"Oh, okay!" He says cheerfully. "Besides, she'd probably pull a bitch fit and vomit all over my apartment if she was left out. Because you are annoyingly needy like that!" He says loudly to the dog panting at his feet.

Everyone relaxes and Scott widens his eyes to his pack around him. He knew this would be hard. He knew that he would struggle being next to his best friend but _not really _being next to his best friend, but this was unlike anything he could imagine.

He spent the past fourteen months trying to adjust to the idea that he would never be around Stiles again. That the last thing his brother did for him was die. But now he was back. And honestly?

Scott really wasn't sure how to deal with that.

**XXX**

"Mom, we're home!" Scott calls, leading Stiles into the foyer. He takes of his shoes one by one, noticing Stiles still next to him. "Everything okay man?" He asks hopefully; maybe something about this house was triggering. _Something_.

"I-I know this is a weird request, but can I keep my shoes on?" he asks hesitantly, not making any sort of eye contact.

Scott has been asked his fair share of odd things from Stiles, but he has to admit, that one was particularly odd. But he shrugs, trying to pretend he didn't think so. "Yeah, it's no problem at all."

There's some clanging in the kitchen and he can hear his mother sprinting down the hall. Scott grimaces, knowing whatever's going to happen is just gonna happen; he called his mother on the way here, letting her know that Stiles was going to be coming over and to _be cool_. He's not sure how much she heard over her high pitched yelping.

Now she was clearly not in control of herself as she burst into the hallway, staring at Stiles like she found her own long-lost son. Stiles recoils a bit (there isn't an inch of this gaze that could be described as subtle). She doesn't say anything. Tears dots her eyes and Scott can tell she's about to get really emotional really quickly, and so he hastily says, "_Mom_. This is Stuart. He's _new_."

His words seems to break through whatever mental meltdown she's having and she blinks a few times, trying to discreetly wipe her tears from her eyes. "Oh, sorry! I was chopping onions in the kitchen and once I got into onion-free air, it started stinging."

Wow, Scott finally realizes where he gets his horrible lying skills from.

It's clear Stiles doesn't buy it, but he puts a hand out anyway. "Stuart. I just moved here."

"Melissa McCall," she says, her words trembling a bit. "Where'd you move from?"

"Glendale. It's a bit away from L.A." Stiles says. He's approaching Melissa carefully, like she might explode at any second (which to be honest, is probably a good idea). "I just got here a few days ago."

"So you've been in California this entire time?" She asks, a little brokenly.

At first Scott wants to snap at his mom for the comment, and then the weight of her question hits him.

_So you've been in California this entire time?_

He was here. He was _here_. He was right under their noses the entire time.

Scott knows his face isn't anything that could be mistaken for neutral.

"Okay, okay," Stiles says, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I have to ask because at first I thought it was just a new kid thing. But there is this voice – this voice in the back of my head that tells me once is an event. Twice is a coincidence. But three or more? It's a pattern. It's a pattern that everyone keeps looking at me like I kicked their dog or just cured cancer or something. Not that I'm not appreciative that people are talking to me or whatnot, but seriously," he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. "What's going on?"

Scott looks at his mom. He's going to do whatever she thinks is right – he doesn't know nearly enough about the brain to be making executive decisions.

His mother seems to contemplate this moment for a second. Then she sighs. "You look extraordinarily like someone who was lost here a little over a year ago." She states gently.

Half-truth. Scott can deal with that.

Stiles frowns. "The Sheriff's kid? Stiles?" He asks suddenly, Scott's mind reeling.

"Someone told you?" Scott exclaimed, panic mounting. It made no sense. He was with him all day – there's no way that someone could've told him, unless it was during his free period. Scott _knew_ he should've skipped gym.

Stiles looks at him exasperatedly. "No, but it's nice to know that you think I'm an idiot," he says playfully. So much like Stiles that Scott can see her eyes water again. "He hugged me. The Sheriff. When I got to the station, _he hugged me_. And he kept saying 'Stiles, Stiles.' All I wanted to know was what the hell a Stiles was, but I just put two and two together." Stiles shrugs, his hands gripping Claudia's leash tight enough to make his knuckles white. "I've always been good at finding connections."

That's for damn sure.

Scott doesn't even know why none of them thought he _would_ figure it out. Because, obviously.

Melissa seems unable to form a coherent response, so Scott saves her. "He was taken fourteen months ago. Sorry dude, you just look so much like him. You could practically be twins."

Stiles' frown deepens. "Is that why you offered to help me today? Because I look like some Sheriff's dead kid?"

Scott can't help the wince. Stiles was never one for tact and it seemed that trait transcended memory loss. "He may not be dead," Scott mumbles, unsure of how to respond.

Stiles groans. "He was your best friend." He states, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, which at this point, it probably is. "Yeah, okay," he sighs. "I should probably just go then. It was nice of you to show me around today, but I get it. I'll just let myself out."

"No, wait!" Scott cries, grabbing his arm.

Before he understands what's happening, Stiles has frozen, his eyes locked at where Scott grabbed his wrist. Like he's burned him, Stiles wrenches his hand out of his grasp and with a deadly voice, states, "Do not _grab_ me."

The air is thick and suffocating, the darkness that coated Stiles' voice seeping into the room.

"I-I'm sorry," Scott says, wondering how this got fucked up so exponentially. "I didn't want to freak you out by telling you that you looked like Stiles. But, stay. We still need to do our Chemistry homework and you _do_ need to be caught up on everything else. My mom's making lasagna, which happens to be the best thing in this world. I know it's a little weird, but it won't be a thing, okay? I promise you, it won't be a thing."

Stiles looks at him, his jaw set and stony, eyeing Scott to see if he's somehow expecting a punchline. "Let me ask you one thing first, though," he says, his hand one the door. "Do you want to be friends with me because of me or because I look like your lost best friend?"

Scott gazes at his mom pleadingly, but she doesn't help. "I don't know," he decides honesty is the best way to handle it. "But you're funny and I think we get on easily. I don't want to _not_ be your friend, just because you look like him."

Stiles ponders this for a few minutes and then smiles. "Well, I am hilarious." He says. He closes the door and steps further into the house. "Would it be okay if I let Claudia off of her leash? I understand if you don't want me to, but she's pretty well-behaved."

Melissa seems to breathe much easier once he closes the door. "Yes, we're definitely a dog-friendly household."

Scott snorts, leaving Stiles puzzled. "I feel like I'm missing out on some incredible joke because any mentions of dogs seems to kill with you people."

The two settle into the living room with their homework, a fair amount of tension still present. Scott isn't quite sure how to dissipate it.

But Stiles, as tactless as ever, apparently decides head-on is a good idea. "Was Stiles a good person?" He asks point blank, no apology in his eyes.

"Yeah. Stiles was the best."

Stiles frowns. "And he was lost fourteen months ago?" He asks, his eyes growing distant like they used to when Stiles would start making connections only he could see.

"Yeah."

"When did the investigation stop?"

Scott stares. "Huh?"

"When did the investigation stop and he was declared dead?" He asks.

It was almost shocking how clinical and tasteless he was being, but Scott supposes that was Stiles. If he wanted to know something, at least.

"Seven months ago."

The pencil snaps in Stiles hands.

Stiles shakes his head, his face wiping clean of emotion. But Scott saw that flicker. That flicker of connection that he shoved down within him, replacing it with a stoic calm. "So, Chemistry," he coughs, rummaging through his backpack and bringing out a pen. "Want to get our Stoichiometry on?" He asks with a grin.

"S-Sure," Scott says.

The two work comfortably for a while, Scott only able to laugh when Stiles bursts into rants about the strangest of topics. He used to think that it was annoying – especially when they needed to be focusing on the task at hand – but he realizes now, he missed it more than anything. Because Stoichiometry would not be quite the same without a tangent about the inferiority of denominators and the history of the number one's loneliness.

Scott looks up to see his mother is leaning against the door frame, a slight smile on her face. He isn't sure how long she'd been standing there, staring at them work. He's glad Stiles hadn't noticed because he's certain the teen would just leave.

"Dinner's ready, you two." She says fondly, gesturing to the kitchen.

Stiles peeks up, a highlighter in his mouth. "Awesome!" He says with it still there, mangling the words in an endearing way.

As they exit the living room, Melissa taps Stiles' shoulder lightly. "I want to apologize," she says quietly. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier. You just startled me a bit."

"Apparently my presence has that effect on people," Stiles mumbles with a sigh. "But it's okay, I understand. I'm going to get a complex if people keep doing this to me, though."

She laughs and leads him into the kitchen, where the table is set. Stiles hesitates before he sits down, his fingers running along the silverware placed before him. Scott helps himself, handing things to his mom, who's staring at Stiles. He seems to be in his own little world, lost in the food placed before him.

"You okay, dude?" Scott asks.

Stiles whips his head up. "Oh, sorry! Lost in thought there for a moment."

"Everything okay?" Melissa McCall asks softly. "Sti – Stuart?"

Stiles looks at her, thankfully not registering the accidental slip up. "Um, yeah. I'm totally fine. I just haven't had a dinner like this in a while." He shrugs, but it's not nonchalant. "I-I can't remember the last time, actually."

Scott looks at his mom, her face twitching from clearly not showing anything pitiful or familiar. "Would you mind me asking what happened to your parents?"

Stiles looks up, his eyes growing dim. "Uh, they uh, died." He says softly, but Scott detects a sense of uncertainty in them. "I'm sorry, I know it's weird but that's kinda fuzzy. I woke up in the hospital and people were telling me I almost died and that my parents were dead and I just, uh, couldn't remember them for the life of me." Stiles sighs. "I was supposed to get into physical therapy for a while, but they couldn't find any insurance covering it, so instead I became a ward of the state. That's why I don't do P.E. or anything, because as it turns out, being owned by the government doesn't really have any perks." He pokes at his food. "Sorry. That was an overshare."

Melissa frowns and Scott can see the wheels in her head turning. Probably, on her next shift, she's going to try and find the medical records of one Stuart Smith. "Physical therapy? What for?" Stiles only looks at her and she puts her hands up. "I'm a nurse at the local hospital. I'm sure we could work out a pro-Bono situation, especially if you don't have any living family."

"Um, I don't really like talking about it. And it's fine. I make it work." Stiles says with a wink, finally grabbing his fork. But Scott can sense the uncomfortable air around him.

So Scott decides on a different tactic before Stiles vows never to come near them again. "So, Lydia's birthday is coming up," he says, knowing that if he can somehow draw Stiles back, it would be with the promise of Lydia Martin. "It's a big thing around here – Lydia throws these huge parties every year."

Melissa snorts. "If I had a dollar for every teenager that came into the E.R. with a broken nose or cut that needed stitches because of this annual party, I would be able to afford to send you to college."

Scott rolls his eyes at his mother. "Do you wanna go?"

Stiles chokes on his lasagna. "W-Wha..? Me? Why?"

"Because! It'd be fun!"

"Well, duh!" Stiles cries, waving his arms. "But I don't know why she'd want _me_ to go! Claudia basically assaulted her in the grocery store!"

Scott laughs. "I don't think she cares. Lydia's a dog person."

"Yeah, her and every other person in this weird town." Stiles mutters.

The McCalls both chuckle.

_Crash._

All three people look up from the dinner table, the sound of glass shattering breaking them from their tension. "Oh God," Melissa breathes, her eyes widening at Scott.

Without thinking, Scott leaps from his seat and sprints out of the room. "Oh God," Stiles says, pushing himself from the table. "I guess… we're running _toward_ the suspicious sounds from the living room?"

And he runs after Scott before Melissa can tell him not to.

When Scott reaches the living room, there's a handful of people dressed in black rummaging around. "Hey!" He shouts, flashing his red eyes without thinking.

They grab a stack of papers from his bag and move to leave. Scott sprints and grabs one by their collar, throwing him across the room.

"What the hell is happening?" Stiles exclaims when he bursts into the room just as Scott has tossed the person easily to the side. "How strong _are _you?" He cries, flinching when the person slams against the wall.

He's distracted by that action because then there's a person beside him. He punches Stiles so the teen stumbles backwards, falling into the bookshelf tucked in the corner.

"Stiles!" Scott cries without meaning to. He doesn't even try and correct himself, but scampers over to his best friend, who's protectively putting his hands up as books tumble on his head.

Once Scott's distracted, the remaining men jump through the open glass. Scott resists the urge to jump after them, reminding himself sternly that Stiles _does not know_ werewolves exist. Stiles blinks dazedly, pushing a few books aside. "Woah, what happened?"

"You were punched in the face by a robber," Scott states, lifting Stiles' chin up to make sure nothing else happened. "You okay?"

"Nothing hurt other than my pride," Stiles grumbles. "Did I at least look kinda badass when he laid me out in one punch?"

Scott snorts. "Totally. Totally badass."

"You're a shitty liar." Stiles rolls his eyes, shaking his head a few times.

Melissa runs into the room, groaning when she sees the shattered glass on the ground. "Crap. You know this means I'm going to have to call the police." She sighs. "Which means your father will be here."

"Hey!" Stiles exclaims, his face twisting in frustration. "I am _not_ Stiles! Why is this so hard—"

"No, she means me," Scott says with a frown. "She means my father has to come."

Stiles grows quiet. Even without his memories, Scott knows his best friend understands. Understands that this is a topic that can only be discussed in a certain capacity.

Scott sits next to Stiles, leaning against the bookcase. "Sorry about that," Scott says breathily. "Sorry I got you punched in the face."

"I think I have a face that people just like to punch," Stiles says with a smirk. "You know how some people, you look at them and think, 'God, I want to hurt you.' I think I have one of those faces."

Scott can't help but laugh, running his hands down his face. But then he notices Stiles' leg, twisted terribly out of the corner of his eye. "Dude!" He cries, pointing at the misshapen bend from his knee down. "Oh my God, are you okay? Did he break your leg? Holy shit!"

Stiles looks at him, surprised. "Woah, breathe." Stiles says, peering at his leg. As soon as he sees it, he groans. "Oh crap."

Stiles reaches down, rolling his pant leg up.

Once he does, it's like the air leaves the room.

_That's_ why Stiles smelled like metal. He pulls on the metal contraption wrapped around his leg, taking off the harness as he studies the prosthetic before him. "Fuck, they bent the metal!" Stiles exclaims, frowning at the contraption before him. "I can't afford a new one of these!"

Scott looks at his mom, who's eyes are wide as she's stuck mid-dial with the police. "Sweetie," she breathes.

Stiles must feel the eyes on him because his cheeks flush bright red. "Dammit." He curses. "I didn't want anyone to know. I already am a freak with how I talk, but this really pushes it over."

Stiles re-straps his knee into the harness and tries to get up, steadying himself as he does so. He takes a few precautionary steps, stumbling a bit. Scott grabs him before he falls. "Fuck," Stiles breathes. "I'm still getting used to this whole thing, but having dented metal sure doesn't help the whole smooth walking thing."

"Are you okay?" Scott knows his voice is small.

Stiles laughs. "What? Yeah – don't freak out! I don't even remember how it happened. Must've been the car accident or whatever. I don't know. But I'm not the most graceful human being anyway, so this doesn't help my endless charm."

Melissa is finishing up with the police dispatch and turns to the boys. "How about this? We have to stay here to give a statement about everything, and then I'll take Stuart to the hospital to see if we can do anything about that prosthetic."

Stiles frowns. "But, I don't have good enough insurance—"

"Sweetie, it's fine. I'm sure the hospital won't mind helping someone who was just attacked in a robbery."

"What were they trying to get, anyway?" Stiles asks, hobbling over to the couch. Scott looks through his backpack, closing his eyes when he sees what's missing.

"The documents Danny gave me." Scott sighs, tossing the bag to the side with frustration. "They took Danny's research."

"About the network trouble?" Stiles asks. "Why would they be interested in that?"

Scott doesn't even know he could possibly answer that question.

"We have bigger problems in our immediate future." Melissa says, looking at the door as sirens could be heard in the distance. "We're about to host Round Three between Sheriff Stilinski and Agent McCall."

Scott grabs a pillow and groans into it.

**A/N: Here we are! I want the problems to be a slow build, so sorry if the pacing seems off. I'm really excited writing them struggling to hide things from Stiles. I figure – Stiles is the one who figures it out mostly and puts the pieces together first, they're gonna have a hard time keeping all the secrets from him, even with memory loss.**

**Please leave a note if you have the time!**


	4. Chapter 3: Connect the Pieces

**Sorry this took so long! Life sorta snuck up on me. Also, I'm in the middle of working on a One-Shot for Cuppa-Char, so I've been greatly distracted… whoops!**

**Okay. So I ****_KNOW_****Agent McCall is trying and getting better and Scott's getting used to the idea of him. But I simply ****_LOVE_****the Dad-Vs-Dad trope and the idea that Sheriff Stilinski just can't get over the fact that he left Scott and Melissa all by themselves and will forever be ragey about it. Not to mention he tried to get the Sheriff fired, so there is that… ;)**

Chapter 3

_Connect the Pieces_

It doesn't surprise her that the Sheriff is the first to arrive.

When Melissa called dispatch, she made a point in telling the on call receiver that Stiles was _fine_, they all were _fine_, but she just had to report a robbery that happened when Stiles was in the area. She insisted that he was fine and to _make sure the Sheriff knew this_, but the lady on the other line just snorted. Melissa grimaced; she did not envy the woman who had to deal with this report.

So when John literally _bursts_ through the door, his eyes having this sort of manic glint to them, she is not surprised in the slightest. Melissa all but body checks him, putting her hands up before he can stumble into the room like a parent on edge. "_No._" She snaps, shoving him back slightly. "You cannot, John. You _cannot_."

He looks at her like he wants to punch her. Which, she knows logically he won't do, but there's always a little insane edge when it comes to the lengths the Sheriff will go to in order to protect his son. "Don't 'John' me, Melissa," he snarls a bit. "My son is in there—"

"And he's fine!" She exclaims, refusing to let him pass. "He's fine other than a little roughing up, which we both know he's experienced much more in lacrosse. But you and I need to have a discussion before you go in there."

The Sheriff huffs a bit like a child – a child who knows that their parents are right, but they're not exactly thrilled about it – and steps back. "What." He snaps.

Melissa takes a deep breath. "Alright. Now think of your blood pressure as I tell you this," Melissa warns.

The Sheriff sighs. "Melissa, I respect you and you know that I love you, but you are taking years off of my life and my patience is growing thin."

"Stiles has a prosthetic leg." She states bluntly, wincing as the Sheriff's eyes widen and he pales. "It got dented during the scuffle and he needs to get it fixed at the hospital, so ask the boys your questions quickly so we can go."

Melissa isn't sure if the Sheriff has breathed. She grips his shoulder tighter, her jaw set. "John, look at me." She demands, snapping her fingers. "_Look at me_. He is _fine_. He's—"

"—undoubtedly _not_ fine!" The Sheriff snaps. She tries to quiet him with her eyes, but he seems to notice his tone regardless. "I need him. I _need_ my son. I need 'John you need to wait for his memories to heal' to not be the only solution to this mess. I need to know that Stiles is safe and I need to know that he feels safe, but none of that is going to happen if things continue the way they are!"

"This is why you cannot enter that living room until you calm down!" She states, snapping her fingers in his face again. "Your son is fine! And it may be hard to watch him be fine on his own accord, but you are here as a Sheriff. A _Sheriff_. And if you can't get that through your skull, than you need to turn around and find someone else to take our statement. That deputy at your station has always been kind. Parrish? Or whatever his name is. He is nice, calm, and easy on the eyes."

The Sheriff groans, his mood not lifting in the slightest. "I swear to God that I am not in the mood for another person swooning over my deputy. I'm going to fire him on the basis that it's pissing me off."

But Melissa watches as the frustration filters out from him, enough to where she isn't afraid that she'll have to body check him for going into the living room. After he breathes deeply a few times, she steps aside and she can see that it is physically paining him to not run in there.

"Stuart, when I said I'd hope we'd be saying seeing each other soon, I was hoping that it was merely a figure of speech." He says as he walks into the room and Melissa pretends she doesn't hear the longing in his voice.

"S'not my fault Sheriff," Stiles smiles as he enters, his eyes glossing over for a small moment when the Sheriff arrives. He shakes his head, the moment nothing but fleeting. "I was assaulted. I was telling Scott I think I have a face that people like to punch."

The Sheriff reaches out once he gets close to Stiles, his hand faltering before he can touch his face. Instead, he bends down to pet Claudia, his eyes old. "Some people just have those kinds of faces, I suppose."

Stiles looks appalled. "You're not supposed to agree! You're supposed to tell be that I'm crazy."

"Well, kid, I'm not the one who was punched in the face this evening." The Sheriff says with a laugh. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Stiles sighs, gesturing to his slightly damaged leg on the table. "Just the machinery." He says, despondently gesturing to the table. "Throws off my balance when the thing doesn't work. I've been considering taking up yoga to help that."

"Should help."

"And I shouldn't be surprised," someone says, marching into the room. "A Stilinski at the center of a felony, what else is new?"

Melissa freezes as her ex-husband enters the room, his face tired. "I beg your pardon?" Stiles frowns.

Agent McCall sighs. "One of these days you're going to answer a direct question from me and I'm going to mark it down as the most beautiful day of my life."

Stiles looks at him, aghast. "Look buddy, I don't know you, but I already think that you're a bit of a douche bag."

"Sti-Stuart!" Melissa exclaims, her eyes wide. This is simply another thing that she cannot explain to her ex-husband. The list was growing and he wasn't getting any less suspicious. "That is a federal agent and you cannot talk to him like that."

"Why not?" Stiles asks, grabbing his prosthetic from the table and readjusting it back onto his leg. "I'm not actually doing anything and he was rude first. You know how I was saying some people just have faces that you can't help but want to punch?"

"Stuart!"

Even as Melissa snaps at him, she watches the Sheriff turn to face the wall with an expression that is clearly not able to smother his laughter. Stiles merely shrugs. "Can't get mad if it's true."

"You know, I can't say I'm fond of your attitude," Agent McCall seethes, clearly upset, like he can't quite figure out the joke that everyone else is on.

"Likewise." Stiles shrugs, standing up from the couch and wobbling a bit, groaning when his leg buckles a bit. "How long do we have to answer questions? I'd like to exit this experience with a small semblance of my dignity in tact. And I'm sure speaking with power-hungry FBI officials wouldn't help that matter."

"Stuart!"

"What?" Stiles exclaims. "I've just met you people and I can tell that all three of you don't like him. It's like a cloud. An angry, 'get-out-of-here' cloud just hovering over all of us, turning me into Eeyore. Yes. It's turning me into a fictional character. A.A. Milne is rolling around in his grave to see that his beloved character is manifesting itself in me. What have to you say to that? What have you, I ask!"

Melissa can't help, but her lips are twitching with a smile. To say she missed the frustrating, borderline juvenile delinquent is an understatement. "You know Stuart is right,"

Stiles shrugs. "And no one is surprised by that fact."

"Who the hell is Stuart?" Agent McCall cries out.

Stiles gapes at him like he's the dumbest boy in all the land and gestures at himself. "Um, hello? I guess the FBI has _really _lowered their standards on the intelligence scale." Stiles says in a huff.

Scott leaps from the couch – he'd been watching this entire ordeal in amusement up until this point – and says, "Mom, we should really get Stuart checked out at the hospital and maybe give Dad and the Sheriff an opportunity to discuss things."

Melissa rushes to Stiles' side and hurriedly says, "Yes, that's a great idea."

Stiles snorts. "Are you two going to join each other in a rousing duet of 'I fought the law and the law won?'"

Melissa shuts her eyes and groans.

"Just trying to diffuse the tension." Stiles offers sheepishly. "Sheesh, tough crowd. I could've used at least ten police-related puns and I withheld. That, my friends, is called restraint."

"Why don't you get that kid out of here before I show him the true definition of 'being restrained.'" The Sheriff groans, rubbing his hand down his face.

"I thought you said you didn't lock up innocent kids!" Stiles cries out.

"I never said that," the Sheriff says pointedly. "My deputy did. Melissa, if you will, please."

On the way out, Melissa sees Scott in the corner, speaking in a hushed voice on the phone. "Yeah, Lydia, it's Scott. Now, don't freak out, but heads up – we're taking Stiles to the hospital because – hello? Hello?"

Melissa groans. She'll have to have a talk with her son later about how to _NOT_ panic loved ones. Not that she was great at it herself, though.

Clearly.

**XXX**

It takes all of twenty minutes for Lydia to show up at the hospital.

Stiles and Scott are sitting in the waiting room, joking around easily as Claudia rests at Stiles' feet when the teenage girl bursts into the room. Melissa's trying to convince the other nurses to simply 'look the other way' as she talks to the rehabilitation doctor about the prosthetic, and the small redhead runs up to her. "Is he okay? What happened? How does this happen that within two seconds of him coming home, people are already trying to attack him?"

"Sweetie, calm down." Melissa says soothingly, pointing over to the waiting room where Stiles is in the middle of what looks to be a hilarious story as Scott cracks up next to him. "Unfortunately, as much as I love my son, he's a little bit of a moron and doesn't know how to give news that doesn't sound like it's life threatening. We had a minor incident at our house and we're just trying to get something taken care of. He's really fine."

Lydia bites her lip, looking over at the boys longingly for a second. Melissa can't remember ever seeing Lydia so hesitant because she can actually see the teen second-guessing herself. But then, Lydia tilts her head up and marches over to the boys.

As soon as she comes in sight, Scott groans slightly. Stiles takes one look at her – currently his prosthetic is in the care of Melissa, so his pant leg is hanging a little oddly at his side. "Fuck!" he exclaims as she marches over, crossing his legs in a way that barely hides the strange folding of his pants. "This is my actual fucking nightmare." Stiles hisses to Scott.

Scott gives him a pitied look, but returns his attention to Lydia. "Lydia, what are you doing here?" He asks carefully, widening his eyes at the redhead as if to try and give some sort of conversation of warning with his eyes.

Lydia doesn't take her gaze off of Stiles, who looks like he'd like to be anywhere but here, and says, "You said something about an incident at your house, Scott. I wanted to make sure you're okay, you know, with your tendency of getting hurt and low pain tolerance."

Scott snorts. Okay, he deserved that one. "Yeah, me and my frail body is fine. So is Stiles."

Stiles, who still hasn't said a word, leans down to pet Claudia awkwardly.

"Then why, may I ask, does he have a black eye?" She huffs.

Stiles looks surprised, touching his face. "Dude, seriously?" He asks Scott. "I have a black eye?"

Scott shrugs. "Didn't have the heart to tell you."

"Didn't have the heart to tell me that I look like a Grade-A badass? You are a _terrible_ friend." Stiles exclaims happily. Lydia takes this change to sit down next to him, to which he jumps slightly. "Why hello there," he mumbles shaking his head.

Scott thinks he says something under his breath that sounds a lot like 'government cockblock.'

"Are you both really okay?" Lydia asks, her voice a little smaller. She looks at Scott as she says this, but he can tell it's taking an exponential amount of effort.

"We're good," Scott says as calmly as possible. "We're fine. Some robbers broke into the house."

Lydia frowns. "What'd they steal?"

"The documents Danny gave me at lunch today."

"What? Really?" Lydia asks, surprised. "Why would they care about something like that?"

"I've been wondering the same thing," Stiles suddenly says, sitting up straight. "What exactly were you having him research? Because you may actually want to discuss it with the Sheriff or that douchebag FBI agent because clearly it was something important. Has Beacon Hills been having any influx of crime lately?"

Scott and Lydia share a moment. "No more so than usual," Scott mutters while Lydia tries to conceal a smile.

"You should ask Danny to print you out another report if he can," Stiles says, luckily in his own world enough to not notice the secret looks between the two. "Because whether you know it or not, you may have stumbled across something."

"Stuart has a point," Lydia says, nudging Scott. "You should call Danny."

Scott pulls out his phone and complies. "Hey Danny! Listen we – what? What do you mean someone broke into your room tonight?"

Lydia and Stiles stare.

"Woah, woah, calm down dude. First of all, are you okay? Did they hurt you, do we need to come and get you?" Scott frowns, his eyes not giving anything away. "Well, at least you're okay. They wiped your entire hard drive? Shit… Dude, perspective, you can write your ECON paper over. Yeah, I'm sorry. ECON is important no matter the circumstances. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Let me know if you need anything."

Scott shuts his phone, grumbling. "So… they hit Danny's house too."

Stiles looks from Scott to Lydia, his eyebrows furrowing. "Are you two into drugs?" He asks finally.

The two stare at him. "W-What?" Lydia exclaims haughtily.

"Are you two like, dealers or something? Is that what's going on?" Stiles asks.

"Excuse me, mister," Lydia says. "Do you think I could have a complexion as perfect as this if I dabbled into hard drugs?"

"If you just sold them…" Stiles mutters under his breath.

Lydia smacks his arm. "I am offended by the insinuation!"

"Actually, you should be flattered." Stiles argues. "Because if there's one person I've met who's smart enough and clever enough to create an underground drug market and never get caught, my thoughts go straight to you. This is actually flattering."

Lydia's mouth twitches, but she tries to remain stony. "You need to practice your flattery."

"Continue to talk with me and I'll practice it all day," he responds cheekily.

Scott clears his throat. "Dude, think about the government."

Stiles' face falls. "Ah, the government. Ruining lives since it was born."

Lydia looks puzzled at this exchange, but too amused to care. She opens her mouth to respond in some way when Melissa walks over, the prosthetic in her hand. "Good as new!" She exclaims, handing it over.

Stiles smiles for a brief moment, but then his eyes fall to Lydia. His entire face falls as she takes in what Melissa's hand to him, his shaky hands reaching out and grabbing it. "Thanks," he says quietly, refusing to make eye contact with Lydia.

"Oh my God," she breathes.

His head bowed, Stiles rolls up his pant leg and angles his body so it's extremely difficult to see what he's doing. His fingers work fast as they strap everything around, hastily pulling his jeans down after he's finished.

He refuses to reach Lydia's gaze.

"I think it'd probably be best if I just went home." He says quietly.

Melissa gives him a pitied look. "I'll take you home, sweetheart. Lydia, would you mind driving Scott home?" She asks, probably sensing Stiles' extreme discomfort.

"O-Of course." Lydia answers, still a bit stunned by the entire process.

Melissa nods and leads Stiles out.

Lydia's still gaping when Scott snaps his fingers. "Lydia, hello!" He cries. "You need to cut that out!"

Lydia's blank expression turns angry. "Well excuse me for being a little stunned! A heads up would've been nice, by the way."

"Between what? My house getting robbed and driving to the hospital?" Scott cries. "Clearly he's super self-conscious about the whole thing. The last thing he needs is the girl he's already infatuated with looking at him like he's a Martian."

"Scott, he doesn't have a leg."

"Lydia, I know, but it's not helping." Scott sighs. "I hate that it's the case, but we have to put all these feelings aside because that's what's best for him."

Lydia's quiet for a moment. She looks at her hands. "How? How can we do that? How can we keep pretending like Mexico never happened? It _happened,_ Scott. I know that for a fact because it's been haunting my dreams for more than a year now. Mexico _happened_."

"I know it did, Lydia." Scott says softly. "And I don't know how we go about this. I don't know. But I do know we have to try. We always have to try."

Lydia bites her lip, but nods. She leans back in the chair, her head hitting the wall behind her. She sighs, closing her eyes. Scott reaches over for her hand and takes it in his.

They sit there like that for a while, quiet and sad.

**XXX**

Stiles waves at Mrs. McCall as she pulls out of the driveway. As the car lights disappear, he lets the forced smile drop from his face and he sighs.

Fuck, he's tired.

For _so many_ reasons.

It all started with the dreams. As soon as he moved his stuff into his apartment, the dreams started. The dreams of creatures, of drowning, and of red eyes. Of electricity and of screaming.

Then, Beacon Hills was like walking in a dream itself. He often had to count his fingers – he read somewhere that in dreams, you don't have ten fingers. Well, he thinks he read that somewhere. He assumes because it's knowledge that he just _knows_ (he has a lot of that, but he chooses not to freak out about it), but he doesn't know why. Like, he knows a cougar is a mountain lion. He knows how many deer-related automobile accidents happen in a year.

He knows that holding your breath is supposed to help panic attacks.

But he doesn't know _why_.

But as he walked into the Sheriff's station, the school, and hell, even the hospital, he fought the desire to count his fingers. Because it feels like it's a dream – a different lifetime ago – that he already experienced all of this.

It doesn't go unnoticed how easy he finds it to talk to Scott. Or how he feels drawn to Lydia for some reason, like a tether. Or that when the Sheriff hugged him unexpectedly that day, how innately _safe_ he felt. Safe for the first time that he can remember.

So tonight, he probably won't sleep.

His night will be filled with research as to who this 'Stiles Stilinski' kid it. He _does_ have a blackbelt in Google-ing.

But when he reaches his apartment door, someone next to him is unlocking their door. Stiles frowns – he didn't even realize he had a neighbor. He smiles at the woman, noticing Claudia tense at his side.

She's beautiful, that was unmistakable. But something about her made him feel a bit uneasy. She notices him as he approaches, smiling broadly at him. "Hello neighbor!" She says, her grin broadening.

"Hi," Stiles says, unable to mask the unease in his voice. "I didn't realize I had a neighbor."

"Just moved in." She looks him up and down and Stiles suddenly wonders if he's forgotten to wear pants. No, they're still on… "You look a bit young to be living by yourself."

Stiles isn't quite sure how to respond to that.

When he doesn't answer, she puts out a hand. "Well, at least I know I have someone to come to if I need sugar or an egg or something."

Stiles takes it reluctantly, wondering if her eyes are actually glinting, or if it's a trick of the moonlight. "Yeah, likewise, I guess. My name's Stuart."

She looks surprised at this admission, but only for a moment. "Stuart? Well, that's an interesting name."

"Not really," he replies, quickly shoving his keys in his lock. "It was nice to meet you…"

His door opens and Claudia runs inside.

"Kate." The woman states as Stiles steps inside of his apartment.

"Kate Argent."

**A/N: Ug, the absolute WORST person you want your apartment neighbor to be, amirite?!**

**Please leave a note if you have the time! Much Love!**


	5. Chapter 4: Claudia's Purpose

**Hey! Thank you for all your wonderful notes and thoughts. They always make my day and I love hearing theories and such. Like I said previously, this is non-canon, but I think I'm going to take some elements from this past season and apply them. Well, at least the elements I like.**

**Let's get started, shall we? This chapter we'll get to explore the reason for Claudia. Prepare for some feelings. You've been warned.**

Chapter 4

_Claudia's Purpose_

Stiles wakes up from a cold sweat and a dream that lives on the tip of his tongue.

He scrambles around for his glasses – the car accident that killed his parents had left permanent damage on his left eye, but he's been try to get used to contacts – flipping on the light with a groan. Claudia whimpers in the corner of the room, making him throw open his comforter and fall to the floor next to her.

"Don't worry there, Dee," he pants as soothingly as possible, his trembling slowly dissipating as he runs his fingers through her fur. "It was just a nightmare. At least, I think it was."

Because the problem is, there are so many gaps these days, Stiles genuinely wonders if the car accident left him permanently brain damaged and someone forgot to tell him. Surely he should _remember_ his parents. They existed, right? He couldn't have always been a foster child, but at this point, he isn't sure if there was any other logical option. Because if he was loved once, if he really had a family, he would remember them, right?

But every time he dreams, he wakes up with a haunting longing that he's missing something. He yearns for things he can't remember and – for all logical accounts – he never had. Perhaps that's what he's most afraid of, if he's entirely honest with himself (and Stiles rarely is). Is not that he'll never regain his memories.

Or rather, he regains them and then he's faced with insurmountable proof that he is, in fact, a nobody.

Someone not worth loving.

Stiles gets out of his bed, sighing at the clock that flashes _4:16_ at his bedside. He knows there won't be any more sleep tonight; not that it helped, his sleeps was particularly restless anyways. He gets a glass of water, setting it on the counter to splash some on his face. His eyes travel to the table, which is filled with printouts from this _Stiles Stilinski_ character that everyone's always going on about.

He doesn't want to admit it, but the first photos that popped up on his search nearly made him faint. The resemblance _was_ uncanny. It was like someone made a carbon copy of himself and gave him this wonderful life with great friends. Stiles found himself running through pages of Stiles' Facebook page, wading through the buffer of Missing Child posters and superficial 'I miss you Stiles – come back home!' posts from people who never made appearances before the teen's absence.

But once he got through all of that bullshit, he found himself wrapped up in a life that wasn't his by a teen who shared his face. Messages from Scott and Lydia, Kira and Isaac, some family called the Hales and even a few from Sheriff Stilinski haunted his thoughts as he slowly faded into an uncomfortable sleep.

He was a terrible person, being jealous of a missing kid. Or worse – a dead kid. But this damn kid had everything he ever wanted: family, friends… people who _cared_.

Stiles groans, rubbing his hands down his face. What kind of depraved juvenile is jealous of a kid who's probably dead?

If he was a bigger person, he would ask for a transfer. He would put as many miles between himself and Beacon Hills as possible. But the selfish, childlike part of him won't let him. Because for the first time since he can remember (granted, he can't remember a lot) that he felt wanted. Like he belonged. And sure, it was probably nothing more than the 'new kid novelty' that piqued everyone's interest in him, but he's not someone to kick a gift horse in the mouth. If they wanted to be around him, he won't say no.

Stiles gathers the pictures of Stiles Stilinski and shoves them in a drawer. He can't stare at the dead teen who shares his face any longer. "Wanna go for a run?" He asks Claudia, who lights up at the idea. "I think we should run."

So the two set out with the sun still hiding from the world and a crisp chill in the air. Stiles usually likes these moments to run before everyone else's awake, but something settles in his bones that makes his hair stand on end. He notices Claudia's not running quite like she usually does – vastly ahead of him until she tugs on her leash with the effort to push further – but right next to his side.

They run alongside the lining of the woods, Stiles' breath shortening, but he's not sure it's from exertion. A howl rings in the air, making him leap and Claudia tense. "That's odd," he breathes, straightening himself out and staring into the woods. "There aren't any wolves in California."

He's not quite sure how he knows that.

Stiles makes his way closer to the tree line, unable to hinder the increased palpitations of his heart. Claudia doesn't follow him. Instead, she sits down, refusing to take a step closer. Stiles runs out of slack on her leash and finds himself dragging her forward. "Come on you scaredy-cat. They're just trees. They're—"

Another howl calls out, except this time it ices him over. It's full of malice and bloodlust, every echo reverberating in his sternum until it draws in line with his heartbeat. Stiles stumbles back a bit. "Actually, on second thought," he mutters, but still unable to unglue himself from where he stands.

"This is private property."

If Stiles could physically jump out of his skin, it would've happened. He doesn't know how the man snuck up on him so successfully, but suddenly there's a broad, fierce-looking man at his side, his arms crossed over his leather jacket. Stiles tries not to show that he's visibly shaking. "U-Uh, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

The man frowns, but it's not menacing. If anything, his eyes are a little sad and even more guilty. Why in the world he would be looking at him like that is beyond Stiles. "Now you do." He states, his voice hard. "You shouldn't be running so early in the morning anyway."

"Okay, thanks dad," Stiles rolls his eyes at the man, but can't help but notice how still Claudia's become since his appearance. She's not afraid anymore, but she looks like she's waiting for something. He really wished he could speak 'dog' in these kind of moments. "People all over the country run before five in the morning. It's called getting an early start on the day."

"Also, statistically speaking, accidents and injury increases when you can't actually see where you're going."

"That's just basic common sense, that's not anything special to report!" Stiles cries.

"Well if it's so common, why don't you employ it?"

"Okay, who even are you?" Stiles cries. He cannot believe that he's actually receiving a lecture from a random stranger that quite literally _appeared_ from out of the woods.

"Derek Hale." The man states, his features flattening into something neutral.

"Well, Mr. Derek Hale – word of advice. Don't creep up on unsuspecting teenagers at early hours of the morning. You could get a reputation, you know."

The man snorts. "I'll be sure to keep that into consideration."

"Be sure that you do," Stiles says. "I happen to be a wealth of knowledge."

Derek could win a medal with the eye roll he gives in return.

The two of them are stopped from conversing any further when a cop car pulls up next to them, shining their lights on the two. Derek stiffens as the Sheriff rises from the seat, his expression angry for some reason. "Hale," he says curtly, though he doesn't keep his eyes off of Stiles.

To say the way the Sheriff looks at him is disconcerting would be an understatement. The Mona Lisa has less emotion in her eyes and a hell of a lot more research to back any theory up. But Stiles feels very exposed whenever the Sheriff looks at him – like he's stealing something precious from the man, but he doesn't know how or why. There's an ache in his chest he tries to discard, but as it turns out, you cannot discard emotions like garbage. The world would be easier if one could do so.

"Sheriff," Derek mutters, as if he's in trouble somehow. Stiles takes a precautionary step away from him, just in case.

"Stuart." The Sheriff says, the anger still in his voice. Stiles isn't quite sure how he pissed off the Sheriff of his new town within the first week of him being present in the city, but he did it. "If I'm not mistaken, you had a concussion tonight and a mishap with your prosthetic."

Derek's eyebrows seem to disappear into his hairline as his eyes fall to the ground where Stiles' leg is glinting in the moonlight. He's glad it's dark because a crimson flush spreads on his cheeks. "Technically it was only a _minor_ concussion." Stiles says. "And I needed to make sure my prosthetic is fully functioning before school anyway. Last thing I need is to fall down the stairs in front of everyone."

"Look kid, you can't simply put the word 'minor' in front of concussion and pretend that it never happened."

"You can if you're persuasive enough."

The Sheriff groans. "It's not safe for you to be out here, running around at night. Doesn't your program have certain curfew requirements?"

That definitely throws Stiles through a loop. Sure, he does technically have a curfew, but the last person he expected to know that was the Sheriff. "Yes," he says tentatively. "My curfew is from eleven to five."

"It looks like it's before five."

Stiles frowns. "Since when do federal foster guidelines fall under the jurisdiction of the local Sheriff department?"

Derek turns away and it make be a trick of the moonlight, but Stiles thinks he's hiding a smirk.

"Since an unaccompanied minor enrolls in said community," the Sheriff finishes easily, as if he's used to these off the cuff questions. "It's my jurisdiction because this community is _my_ jurisdiction."

Stiles can't help but gape. "It's not that big of a deal!" He looks at his phone, which is currently strapped around his arm. It's _4:53_, it's going to be five in seven minutes!"

"I don't care. The last thing I want to happen is for you to jeopardize your grant on the basis of a technicality. So why don't you hop in the car and I'll give you a lift home?"

Derek whirls back around. "Sheriff, are you sure that's a good idea?" He asks, his eyes wide. "I could go get my—"

"Unnecessary, Hale. I got this one covered. I expect a report in a few hours, though." Stiles raises and eyebrow and the Sheriff says quickly, "He's a contractor for my department. A special unit, if you will."

"Is the special unit in brooding and leather goods?" Stiles mumbles, climbing into the car begrudgingly after letting Claudia in the back.

The Sheriff just barks a laugh at that.

Stiles can't help but be a little peeved at the man, even though logically he knows he's right. It would be stupid to potentially lose his funding over a stupid technicality. But it doesn't mean that he's happy stuck in a cop car with the man he can't stop thinking about.

They drive in an awkward silence for a bit, but it's pretty obvious the Sheriff wants to say something. It takes about a minute for the man to break down. "I really am sorry, kid."

For some reason, Stiles is filled with a horrible guilt for _ever_ putting a sad expression on this man's face. So he sighs, trying to filter his annoyance out. "Naw, I get it. You're a good Sheriff if you care that much." Stiles peers out the window, watching the sun rise over the mountains. It's really beautiful; Stiles can't remember feeling so peaceful. He definitely didn't think it'd ever be in a police car.

"I couldn't sleep," he says in a small voice, refusing to meet the Sheriff's gaze.

With Stiles being so determined to look elsewhere, but it was frustrating that the Sheriff didn't even make a noise so he could figure out what was going on in his head. "Do you have trouble sleeping often?" was the response, but it was strained.

Stiles considers lying, considers not saying anything at all. After all, it's not like he _knew _the Sheriff. But something compels him forward, compels him to continue his thought. He isn't sure, but he thinks that is has to be something like _trust_ that's keeping him here. Which didn't make any sense, particularly since he didn't actually _know_ the Sheriff.

"Yeah," he breathes, leaning his forehead against the window and ignoring the steam that curling by his mouth. "I can never remember them though. The only thing I can remember are red eyes, which don't make any sense. But I have nightmares more than I have regular dreams."

The Sheriff breathes deeply. "You have nightmares about red eyes?"

Stiles thinks about that for a moment. "No, the red eyes aren't really in the nightmares – which is weird, I know. Actually, when the red eyes are there, I feel safer. Usually it's humans who are the monsters in my dreams." He sighs, rubbing the window so he can see out of it. "Although, usually it is humans who are the monsters anyways." He mumbles, staring at the blank road before them.

"In my experience, that's definitely been the case," the Sheriff murmurs in return.

Stiles turns to look at the man – the man who lost his son. He looks tired and a little haggard, as if life has simply taken away his spirit. Stiles supposes that maybe it has. "I'm sorry about Stiles." He finds himself saying, but he immediately regrets it.

The Sheriff whips his head in Stiles' direction, his eyes fierce. The gaze is so intense, Stiles has to look away. "Who told you about that?"

"I kinda put it together myself," Stiles says. "I'm pretty good at finding connections in things. But Scott and his mom are the ones who confirmed it. But I'm sorry. You know. For your loss."

"Thank you… Stuart."

And, because Stiles can't ever seem to find the appropriate time to _shut up_, he pushes further, "Do you think you'll ever find him?"

He regrets it as soon as he asks. Because asking the father of the dead kid while looking _exactly_ like said dead kid is the right thing to do.

Tactlessness, thy name is Stuart.

"Sorry," Stiles says hurriedly. "I don't know why I asked that. I went too far, sometimes I just can't control what I—"

"I don't know," the Sheriff says thoughtfully, cutting him off. "Sometimes I think I will and other days… other days it's easier not to hope."

"There's always hope."

Stiles says it without thinking, and quite frankly, he isn't sure where it came from because he's not a particularly hopeful person. But it sounds like something someone else said to him, someone who's name he's long forgotten.

The Sheriff pulls up to his apartment and gives him a small smile. "I suppose you're right about that, kid."

**XXX**

Scott peeks at the door, waiting for Stiles to march in. The Sheriff called him this morning with the retelling of Stiles' little expedition in the morning, which shouldn't surprise him as much as it does. He just thought it'd take more than _a day_ to start wandering around when there's a potential killer roaming the woods. The Sheriff asked that Scott keep him out of any _supernatural_ shenanigans for as long as possible – a request that Scott was more than happy to agree to.

As soon as Stiles walks through the doors of the school, Scott waves him over, trying to act as natural as possible. Stiles returns the favor and heads over, the lines under his eyes a little darker than he remembered. "What's up?"

Stiles smiles. "Oh, you know. Managing to get into trouble with the Sheriff _again_. I'm going to get arrested one of these days."

Scott snorts. "Not in this town you won't." Scott looks up to see Stiles looking suspicious, and hurriedly corrects, "Because teenagers aren't high on the list. Because of, you know, all the… drugs." He finishes lamely, closing his eyes at his own lie.

Stiles only sighs. "Right."

Scott can tell that Stiles knows he's being lied to nonstop and it appears his patience for it is dwindling. He's saved, fortunately, by Lydia, who approaches them. Stiles catches sight of her and a faint blush tinges his cheeks and he turns his attention to Claudia, who's doing nothing interesting in particular. Scott smirks.

"Hello boys," she greets, waving her hands.

"Hey Lydia," Scott laughs as Stiles mumbles something intelligible. "You still game for your party on Friday? I was telling Stuart all about it."

Lydia's smile broadens. "Of course! It wouldn't be a new year without a party and my mom is going away for the weekend."

"Kira's gonna be my plus one," Scott says.

"Obviously," Lydia says with a smirk. It's nice to see her so carefree and happy – two things he hasn't seen on Lydia Martin in a while. "What about you, Stuart? Have an idea for your plus one?"

Stiles finally stares at her. "Yeah, because girls are really wanting to jump the bones of a one-legged foster kid who has a therapy dog. You're hilarious Lydia, seriously, consider doing stand-up."

"If anything I thought Claudia would be a plus since she's so cute." Lydia chuckles. "I've always loved dogs."

Stiles can't hide his smile from that. "Well, as you can tell, she's pleased." He says, gesturing at Claudia, who's practically smiling at everyone. Scott can't help but return it and Claudia wags her tail harder. Stiles claps a hand on Scott's shoulders, taking him out of the starting contest with the dog. "And I've decided to take you up on it – I'm gonna try out for lacrosse."

Scott beams, but it falters. "But I thought—"

Stiles waves his hand. "I didn't want to because I didn't want anyone to know I have a prosthetic. But since that secret is out like, two seconds into starting the new school, I may as well have some fun with it. Not that I'll even make the team – I don't know the first thing about lacrosse. I just think I should do something. Ever since I've moved here, I feel really jittery – even more than normal, and I didn't think that was possible. I think I need to get it out or something. Lacrosse makes you run a lot, right?"

Scott snorts. "Definitely."

Lydia watches the scene before her, a smile growing on her face. "I've always loved lacrosse. Now I'll have another person to root for in the stands. Kira's so loud for Scott, he definitely doesn't need my help."

Scott rolls his eyes at Lydia, but doesn't miss the way Stiles' heart jumps at her admission. He tries to hide his smile. "Good! And I'm sure it won't be as bad as you think. Coach Finstock is a bit much to handle, but think of him as a teddy bear. A weird, angry, loud teddy bear."

The three of them make their way to class, Scott taking a few steps behind Lydia and Stiles to watch them. As much as he would like to commandeer his best friend and just hold onto him (which would be a horrible idea for many reasons – the main one being _he doesn't remember anything_), Scott knows something important when he sees it.

_Tethers_.

He remembers how Allison would pull him back and anchor him in reality. How just thinking about her would calm him down and her smile would make his chest feel warm. Sure, he likes Kira and he has a feeling that the like might one day turn into something more, but Allison remains burned on him like the two bands around his arm. And when he sees Stiles lean into Lydia slightly and Lydia tilt her head toward him, he can't help but smile wistfully at that.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry… for last night," Lydia's saying softly, even though Scott knows she's aware he can hear them. "I-I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. It was really insensitive of me."

Stiles merely smiles back. "Nah, it's okay. It's me who's oversensitive about the whole thing. I just…" He sighs, looking down the hall where people were staring at the trio of them as they passed. Scott tried his best to glare. "It used to be a thing, you know? In the foster homes. People didn't… they didn't have great reactions to it." Stiles shrugs. "I guess I got a little sensitive."

"It doesn't take away the fact I should've been better," Lydia states, her voice firm. "And I'm sorry. And you shouldn't feel weird about it at all. You're actually part cyborg now."

Stiles erupts into laughter, shaking his head. "I never thought about that before," he laughs, the noise genuinely infectious for the two who hadn't heard it in such a long time. "Part-cyborg, the fuck…"

Lydia laughs to herself and the three of them situate in the classroom, choosing seats on either side of Stiles. He doesn't mention it being weird or object, still laughing quietly to himself when Kira and Malia enter after them.

"Did anyone understand the answers to 1, 3, 5, 7, and 9?" Malia hisses, rummaging through her textbook.

"Malia, that is literally the entire homework assignment." Lydia states with a huff.

"I know," Malia answers. "I was going to do my homework, I really was. And then I realized it was stupid and chose not to."

Scott groans. He's been so distracted by Stiles that he hadn't checked up on their recent pack member in a few days. "Malia, we've gone over this," he says. "School is important. You have to do your homework to get in a good college."

"What if I don't want to go to college?" Malia asks and Scott closes his eyes. They've had this conversation countless times before. "Why should I pay people to teach me things I don't care about?"

"Malia—"

"No! I know I'm not gonna do good, so why bother?"

"Well." Stiles says while unpacking his backpack. He isn't even looking at them.

Malia turns, her eyes hard. "Excuse me? Well, what?"

Stiles peers up, noticing all the gazes have fallen to him. "Uh, it's 'well.' You're not going to do well, not do good."

"Oh God," Malia hisses. "I'm going to kill you."

Stiles shrugs, unphased. "Hopefully you'll do it 'well.'"

Malia picks up her book and lifts it over her head toward him, but Scott grabs her arm. "Malia, school is important."

He uses a bit of his Alpha voice in that one – which he instantly feels a little bad for because he hates asserting his dominance over anyone – but people are starting to stare and another concussion is the last thing Stiles needs. Malia glowers at him but shuts her mouth.

"Okay class, let's get started!" Mrs. Smith, the English teacher, claps her hands as she enters the room. Scott would like to thank God for teachers. "I hope you all had a nice evening filled with endless pursuits in literature!"

"It was _not_ nice." Malia growls, but the teacher, thankfully, waves her off, clearly used to it at this point.

"Now! I thought, as a fun exercise from our recent study in _Beyond the Looking Glass_ by Lewis Carroll, we could have a riddle exercise, explaining why these are effective literary devices for both children and adults. Does anyone have a riddle they'd like to share that is _not_ in the book?"

Scott tunes out the lecture a bit because he'd had enough riddles to last him his lifetime _thank you very much_, but the rest of the class seems to be enjoying it.

A blonde girl in the front raises a hand. "What comes down, but never goes up?"

It takes a few guesses, but someone finally answers, "Rain."

Another person asks, "If I drink, I die. If I eat, I'm fine." (a fire)

Scott frowns because he can smell anxiety. It's growing as the riddles increase. He looks outside, but there isn't anyone even in the courtyard.

"What travels around the world, but stays in one spot?"

Claudia starts to whimper. It's weird because Scott doesn't think he's ever heard her make a single noise. But it's a small whine that is barely audible over the laughter of the class, the high-pitched noise grating on his ears. (a stamp)

"What has hands but cannot clap?"

The whining increases and so does the anxiety. Scott looks around, but everyone's laughing. Claudia's whimpering is loud enough to be heard over the laughter and the teacher frowns, her eyes tired. (a clock) "Shut up!" Malia shouts at the dog, covering her ears and wincing.

"When is a door not a door?"

That's when he finally puts it together. Scott isn't sure why it took him so long – maybe it's because he's been missing for such a long time or maybe it's because Stiles smells a little different than he used to. (when it's ajar) But he hears the palpitations in his heart and he hears him straining for breath. Claudia puts her nose on his hand and then starts barking.

Barking so loud that the last riddle is barely heard.

"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it."

Stiles gasps for breath, his entire body shaking. Claudia's barking nonstop, touching her nose again against his hand, but it isn't getting through. His eyes are glassy and one of his hands is at his chest. "Scott, do something!" Lydia shouts.

Stiles eyes roll up on his head as his body gives one last tumultuous shiver. He slumps to the floor, his eyes closed and body limp, Claudia still barking as she rests her paws on his chest.

(a shadow)

**A/N: Ta-Da! Sorry it took so long and everything's going so slow! I'm just in no rush with the plot for some reason… lol. And I will say I took some liberties with therapy dogs, so if you want to inform me more (I only have a basic knowledge of epilepsy dogs, so I probably took some artistic liberties here), please let me know!**

**Please leave a review if you have time! Much love!**


	6. Chapter 5: Plan of Attack

**Hey! Finals are over! *dances***

**I wasn't expecting to update so soon, but you know how much I love emotion! And the plot is finally becoming a ****_thing_****, which I think we can all appreciate. There's no way that I'll be able to finish this fic before the next two episodes, so maybe YAY for story during the hiatus?**

Chapter 5

_Plan of Attack_

When he wakes up this time, he's entirely alone.

Stiles shoots up from the bed, his eyes wide and frantic, everything around him swirling to form a world that he's never known before. A world of monsters and murderers, of beasts and humans. But he doesn't know any of it. Instead, he clutches his chest, trying to remember the last thing that made sense to him. What he remembered.

What he remembered didn't make a terrible amount of sense. He remembered the teacher taking about Lewis Carroll and how everyone was telling riddles in class. Now the weird thing was, Stiles likes a good riddle. But when they were asked over and over again, his palms started sweating. His heart raced. Suddenly his body wasn't his anymore and it was panicking. He hadn't has a panic attack that bad since before…

Well, since before he got Claudia.

He barely registers the distressed beeping coming from the monitors around him because the door swings open, revealing a frantic Mrs. McCall. "Sweetie – you're awake!" She exclaims, rushing over and grabbing his arm. Stiles looks at her, unsure of what to do when the mom of a friend who you just met and had a best friend who looked just like you runs up, looking concerned.

Then again, would anyone?

He settles on a half-smile, unable to prevent himself from recoiling at her enthusiastic approach. He can see the sadness in her eyes as he does so, but he can't bring himself to feel terribly bad for doing so because he is _not Stiles_. "How are you feeling?" She asks quietly, pulling her stethoscope from her neck and placing it on his chest.

"I've felt better," Stiles says, now that the initial shock of waking up in the hospital has slowly filtered from his system, he realizes how incredibly exhausted he feels. "I kinda feel like I just ran a marathon."

"Well, that's to be expected," she says with an encouraging smile. She pulls a light from her pocket and places a finger up. "Follow my finger,"

Stiles does as he's told, wishing that they would just let him go. And maybe give him a few aspirin before they do.

As Mrs. McCall continues her exam, the door swings open, revealing a flustered Scott and mildly-deranged Sheriff. Stiles frowns at the Sheriff's entrance, trying not to catch his gaze. "Are you doing okay?" Scott asks, a little more frantic than Stiles would've hoped.

The thing is, he likes Scott. Stiles has never connected with a person so easily before in his life – his ADHD and love of sarcasm has always prevented this – but he can't help the gnawing feeling in his stomach that their friendship is based off of his loss of a best friend. Stiles is still trying to figure out whether he's okay with that or not.

"Yeah, just a little embarrassed," he says sheepishly. "I just need – shoot, where's Claudia?"

Stiles notices the flicker of pain in the Sheriff's face, but he doesn't say anything. "Claudia's fine, she's just being catalogued by social services with a few witnesses." Mrs. McCall states. "She's very antsy, which I'm assuming has to do with her distant proximity to you. But they are just going over what happened, to make sure she was doing her job correctly."

"She was, I was just an idiot." Stiles says quickly, wanting to defend his service animal so there was no question that she was behaving properly. "I just assume that people know what she does when she senses something. I should've spoke with all the teachers that when she starts whining, that means my heart rate has elevated to an unhealthy level. It's all my fault this happened."

Stiles puts his head in his hands, scooting his legs close to his chest so he can rest his head on his knees. He wishes he was normal. A normal, functioning barely-there adult who could worry about normal stuff. Like getting a girlfriend. And not about whether or not he's going to have a panic attack in class where he passes out in front of everyone.

He doesn't move until he feels a hand on his knee. Stiles looks up to see the Sheriff, who's giving him a warm look. "Why don't you walk through what happened?"

"I didn't realize that—"

"My community, my jurisdiction." The Sheriff cuts him off with a smile, which Stiles can't help but return. "Besides, I have to file a report with social services about the incident."

Stiles isn't quite sure he believes him, but he doesn't argue. Instead he eyes Scott wearily and considers asking him to leave, because quite frankly, the exploits are a bit embarrassing. A teen that can barely take care of himself. Well, actually he can't. He needs a dog to make sure he doesn't die randomly in one of his episodes… great.

"Fine," he breathes. He looks around, frowning. "Can you hand me my backpack really quick?"

Mrs. McCall does so and he rummages around until he finds his glasses, putting them on and placing the world more in focus. He feels a little more grounded and at this point, anything helps.

"Dude, you wear glasses?" Scott asks, surprised.

"Yeah, I've been trying to get used to contacts, but glasses are much better." Stiles says. "The car accident that killed my parents almost left me blind in my left eye. This sort of balances out the world a bit."

Mrs. McCall has an odd look on her face, her eyebrows pulled down in thought.

"Well," Stiles begins, refusing to look at any of the people in the room. "I guess they started after the accident. I used to get panic attacks sometimes. They were weird things. And I do mean weird. The strangest things triggered them. Doctors told me that it must've been something in my past that I can't remember that makes me anxious. He said they would go away with time, but they never really did.

"But it wasn't really a problem until I was put in the foster system. I mean, in the past 7 months, I had four families. I was literally a nomad for the longest time. But no one really did anything about it until my last family." Stiles sighs, still thinking about the last family he was with, with haunted eyes. He can tell that everyone around him is still and impatient, waiting for the rest of the explanation. It's just… difficult.

"They weren't the best," Stiles finally manages, trying to push thoughts of the Harpers out of his mind. "They just…" Stiles closes his eyes. "weren't the best. I was left alone a lot, though. And I remember looking at this thing they had on their wall. And I don't know why, but I lost it. Completely lost it. Suddenly couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything. But no one was there."

Stiles fiddles with a few fraying strands of his hospital gown. "They found me unconscious a while later. I think they even said they had to restart my heart. It was bad. That's why they let me do this program, even though I'm considered a 'risk' with all my medical problems. They used the settlement money they got to buy me Claudia, who's now supposed to alert me or anyone around me when I start getting in a panic. It's nice to have someone there.

"I can't really stop them all by myself."

He is a little embarrassed at how pathetic his last words are, but it's the truth. That really was the scariest part about the panic attacks is the all-encompassing darkness, when he's entirely alone. Stiles brings his chin back to his knees, choosing to focus on the crack on the wall opposite him.

"I haven't had one that bad since. And I have no idea why those stupid riddles set me off in class today," Stiles says, grabbing his head. "The first one, I was fine. But then people kept asking them and it was… it was like my body wasn't even my own."

Stiles misses how the three collectively breathe and look at each other.

"They were echoing in my head and it didn't even sound like teenagers anymore. I just remember getting freaked out and scared, which is quite possibly the most embarrassing thing ever." Stiles finishes with a groan. "It was like sleep paralysis – like my mind was awake, but my body was asleep and I couldn't get it to wake up. Not my favorite feeling."

An uncomfortable silence settles on the group.

After clearing his throat a few times, the Sheriff says, "Thank you for sharing that, Stuart. I know you probably don't like having people poke into your life all the time, but it helps us do our job effectively."

"It's no problem," Stiles says softly. "I'm a foster kid. I'm used to people knowing everything about me."

That doesn't seem like it was the right thing to say because the Sheriff's eyes grow slightly murderous. "Listen," the Sheriff says after a few calming breaths. "You and I both know that this who situation is weird. There's no getting around it. But, that said, I want you to know that if there's anything you need, please come and find me. You may feel like you are alone – maybe that's all you've known since the accident – but we are a community here. And the community is—"

"—your jurisdiction, I know." Stiles finishes with a small smile. "Maybe." Mainly because the Sheriff is right about one thing:

It is weird, though.

The Sheriff nods and Stiles is fairly certain he sees tears filling them up. He coughs and nods toward the door. "I need to go speak with Child Services and then I'll be back in to check on you before I leave. Rest up, Stuart."

Stiles nods, trying to ignore the fact that he feels the desire to calls out to the Sheriff and ask him to stay. Wow, the dysfunctionality he feels in Beacon Hills is staggering.

"I'm going to go speak with the doctor really quick and be right back," Mrs. McCall says. "Scott, would you mind accompanying me really quick. I bet they'll want to ask you a few questions."

Stiles watches as they all leave, hoping his smile is something other than disappointed. Scott nods to him and says, "I'll be right back after they're done. Since my mom's worked here for years, I have an Xbox stored in one of the lockers. We can hook it up."

That makes Stiles grin. "You're on."

"Real quick," the Sheriff says before they filter out once more. "If you don't mind me probing one last time, what was the thing that triggered the panic attack with your foster family?"

Stiles hesitates before answering. "An arrow. A silver arrow."

He doesn't wait to register their reactions, but simply prepares to be alone again.

It's frighteningly loud, being alone.

**XXX**

By the time the door is shut, Melissa knows she's going to have to prevent an explosion of monumental proportions from John. Her son isn't looking too great either, but he's definitely more of an 'internal destruction,' rather than the traditional Stilinski approach. She leads the two men around the corner, waiting until they are far from Stiles' door until she stops them. She faces John.

Then… nothing.

It's not that Melissa _wants_ the Sheriff to have a breakdown, it's simply surprising that he doesn't. Instead, he just looks old. Weathered. She often wonders if the world gets a cruel pleasure on the pain of John Stilinski, for how often it torments him. He runs his hand down his face.

"Remind me, again." He states, his voice weirdly quiet.

"What?" Melissa asks.

"Remind me again. Remind me why we can't simply tell Stiles who he is. Remind me why it would be more detrimental to tell my son that he is _my son_ and _not_ alone than it is to simply leave him all alone. Remind me again."

"John," Melissa says as comfortingly as possible, reaching out and touching his arm. "You know why."

"The hell I do!" John shouts and Melissa can't help but feel a little more comfortable with his shout. John being quiet has never been a good thing. "Did you not hear that story? Did you not hear about how my son – whom I've been looking for over a year – has been moved from foster home to foster home? About all the medical problems he has from a supposed 'car accident,' which we all know is actually whatever the Calaveras did to him – or whoever they sold him to. He is seventeen years old, he needs a support group in his life. He needs help from whatever happened in Mexico and now what's happened in the foster system. He needs _me_, dammit, and I can't just sit idly by as he struggles through this on his own!"

Melissa lets the man rant, mainly because she knows he needs it. Once he's finished and his bravado deflates a bit, she puts a hand on his arm. "John, you know why. Today is a perfect example. His mental health is borderline – at best. He heard _riddles_ and went into a full-blown panic attack, to which he slipped into unconsciousness from. That in itself is proof that bombarding him with information about his past, about the supernatural, and mostly about whatever horrible incident happened after Mexico, will have lasting – potentially _fatal_ effects on him. We need to tread carefully."

"Can't we do a CAT scan or something?" Scott asks, some color returning to his face. "See if it maybe is something that can be fixed."

Melissa nods. "Why do you think I insisted he come to hospital for a minor concussion that I could've easily diagnosed at home, yesterday? Anything to get that boy into a CAT scan without making him more suspicious than he already is."

Melissa motions them to follow him down the hall to the nurses station, where she rummages around until she reaches a file. "His scans came back clean, but it wasn't until he mentioned needing glasses did something connect." She says, flipping Stiles' file open and holding up the film. "I'm going to give it to one of our neurologists, but do you see that shadow here?" She points to a part of the scan, knowing that the Sheriff and Scott probably won't know what she's talking about, but that they both appreciate being told things regardless. "I didn't think much of it, I thought it was a grain on the film. But when he said he was nearly blind in his left eye, it got me thinking – something must have hit him hard enough to lose visibility. That might be tied to his amnesia as well."

The Sheriff nods. "Whatever you need, do it. Put it on my insurance, put it on my credit card, I don't care. Just figure out how to fix my son."

Melissa sighs. "You know it's not that simple."

"It needs to be," Scott says and Melissa can't help but marvel at how mature and authoritative his voice is. Sometimes she has to be reminded that he _is_ still a teenager, even though circumstance has tried to drag that out of him. "He's already getting really suspicious of everything. The Sheriff said he almost went into the woods this morning. Plus, it's _Stiles_. He's gonna get curious and he's gonna try and figure everything out – if he hasn't started already."

The Sheriff makes a strangled noise, which is probably somewhere between frustration and agreement.

"What we need to do is make sure he's not alone," Melissa states, shoving the scans back into the file. "That's the biggest problem. If he's already suspicious, he'll try and figure it out. We need to take away his opportunity to investigate."

"Have you _met_ my son?" The Sheriff cries. "I couldn't stop him from tapping into the police system when he was thirteen, let alone all the illegal things he did before I knew about our supernatural happenings."

"Well, we have to try." Melissa states, trying to ground the two men in her life. "We have to try because we don't have any other option. Scott – invite him over to stay the night. Then the next night is Lydia's party, which try to either stay at Lydia's or have him come to our house. That gives us at least 48 hours to figure out what to do from there. I'm going to try and track down 'Stuart Smith's' files, that way we have a better idea of what we're working with."

She nods at the two men, who don't look entirely convinced. Which makes sense, because she's practically trying to convince herself. "We can do this."

**XXX**

"So was this your mom's idea or yours?"

Stiles asks as he walks through the McCall's house. Granted, it didn't take much convincing to make him agree to a night at Scott's house, but Scott knows that he's still not entirely convinced of the lies they're telling him.

Scott chuckles. "A little of both? I mean, we never really got to go over everything to help you catch up, being robbed and all."

"There is that." Stiles laughs.

Claudia sits at his side anxiously, staring up at him with the definition of 'puppy dog eyes.' "Yeah, yeah, you little tart." Stiles laughs, bending down and unclasping her service vest. "I suppose you earned a break today." He chuckles, pulling the vest off.

She doesn't run like she did the other night, though. She stays right by his side, allowing Stiles to place a hand on her head. In a voice that Scott knows he wouldn't have heard if he wasn't a werewolf, Stiles whispers, "Thank you."

As soon as the moment's over, Claudia yips and runs throughout the house. Stiles rolls his eyes at her. "I swear, she's behaved."

Scott laughs. "Naw, dude, it's fine. She's awesome."

"Yeah," Stiles says wistfully. "She is." He blinks. "So! I thought since I was delightfully given a pass on all my homework after my episode in first period, we could do something else!"

"Like what?"

"Like figure out what was so important about the documents that were stolen the other night."

Scott frowns. "But they were taken and they got to Danny's hard drive."

"Minor detail, my friend." Stiles say, rummaging around his backpack and pulling out a few pieces of paper and a spool of red yarn. "You forget that I so rudely took them and looked at them for a bit. We can piece it back together."

"You really think you can remember it all?" Scott laughs.

"First of all, rude. Your lack of confidence is insulting. Secondly, whatever my Adderall-addled brain comes up with is better than what you have now, right?"

Scott really didn't have an argument against that.

But, this was the last thing he wanted. Stiles isn't supposed to get involved in whatever Supernatural shenanigans are happening – he promised Sheriff Stilinski. Then again… it _would_ be great to have his help. Plus, Scott's sure that whatever Stiles managed to stuff inside his brain in those few minutes (which, if he's being honest, was probably _a lot_) would help them in the long run.

"Okay," Stiles says, once he has his supplies strew out on the living room. "First thing I remember is there was an influx of electric activity at the Hale residence. Which, now having met a Hale, makes no sense because he seems very of the 'survivor man' variety."

"You met a Hale?" Scott cries, aghast. Why is this so much harder than it sounds? "Which one?"

"There's multiple? Good Lord," Stiles groans. "Derek. He was very broody. Spoke in monosyllables. I can imagine him punching me in the throat."

"Oh good, Derek."

"You mean Derek is the good one?" Stiles cries. "What sort of monstrosity is the other?"

"Peter," Scott says through gritted teeth. "Peter is… well, complicated to say the least."

"I'm gonna take your word on it." Stiles frowns. "But another weird thing was an influx of electricity coming from someone named 'Chris's apartment. I'm sorry, but I didn't get a last name."

"Really?" Scott says, trying to ingest that information. "There was a connection between Derek and Chris? That doesn't make any sense."

"Do they know each other?" Stiles asks.

"Yeah. They used to have a… complicated relationship. I guess it's still complicated, but they're nice to each other now. They've bonded over… loss." Scott says, his eyes falling to the floor. They well up in tears like they usually do whenever he thinks of Allison.

He can tell Stiles notices, but is nice enough not to say anything. "Okay, so there's an influx of electric activity between Derek and Chris' houses. Also, there was some internet connectivity to the 'Hale House,' which I guess is different than Derek's?"

"What?" Scott cried. "That's impossible."

"Jeez, I'm just relaying what the sheet said, simmer down."

"Sorry. But it's impossible."

"Why?" Stiles asks, too interested for Scott's comfort.

"Because the Hale House was torn down six months ago. And nothing's been built in its place."

At that, Stiles looks pensive. "You know," he starts.

"Oh God," Scott groans.

Because Scott knows that 'you know.' Stuart/Stiles aside, he knows his best friend. He knows the impish look on his face that he gets when he comes up with an idea. A _terrible_ idea that will probably be 95% illegal and potentially get him injured. He's heard it a million times.

"We could go check it out."

And _there it was_.

"No." Scott states, vehemently shaking his head.

"Seriously – we could go check it out! I happen to have a flashlight in my backpack!" Stiles says, rummaging around once more and bringing it out.

"Why the hell do you have that?"

"For emergencies like this! You can never be too prepared!" He exclaims. "We could go to the remains of the Hale House and see what's up! Internet networks don't just literally spring from the ground – someone has to put them there!"

"No!" Scott cries, reeling from the serious case of déjà vu at the moment. "No, we are not wandering around Beacon Hills at night!"

"Why _not?_"

"Because," Scott is having trouble coming up with a legitimate excuse that isn't 'because werewolves might rip your throat out with their teeth.' "Because you had to go to the hospital today and my mom would quite literally _kill_ me if we went out. Seriously – she knows how to do it."

Stiles frowns, his eyes narrowing. "Fine. But after Lydia's party this Friday, because obviously we are so going to that, we are going to the Hale House in broad daylight since someone's afraid of the dark. And we are going to investigate."

"But—"

"No buts! This investigation is happening whether you're helping me or not!"

Scott weighs his options. Either kinda sucked. Because 1) He could go against the Sheriff's wishes and go with Stiles in an potentially horrifying attempt to figure this out or 2) Decide he won't be a part of it and have Stiles most assuredly do it on his own free will and potentiall get murdered.

Great.

Scott groans. "Fine, but we do it in the middle of the day and we let my mom know where we're going."

"Whatever. Why she would care that we're going to public property is beyond me." Stiles says, returning his attention to the floor. He taps his thin fingers against his lips. "There's one other thing I'm forgetting. It's right there. Right at the tip of my tongue."

He sighs. "I'll probably remember it in the middle of the night and then forget it the next morning. Completely useless."

Scott opens his mouth to retort, but then is cut off when his phone rings. "Hello?"

_"__Hey Honey, can I talk to Stiles? Something's… come up."_

"Is everything okay?"

_"__Just… put Stiles on the phone. Please?"_

Scott frowns, but offers the phone to Stiles. "My mom wants to talk to you."

Stiles looks surprised, but takes the phone in his hand. "Hello?"

_"__Hey sweetie, it's Mrs. McCall. I'm calling because of some concerns Social Services has raised and they thought it'd be best if I spoke to you about it."_

Stiles' eyes grow wide and he takes a glance at Scott, before rushing out of the room.

Scott knows it's wrong. He knows that it is wrong to use his wolf hearing on something that wasn't his business.

Doesn't mean he won't do it.

_"__What's up?"_

_"__The Sheriff and I were just told that Social Services is questioning whether putting you in this program was a good idea, seeing as there have been two hospital visits within two days."_

_"__Wha – that's not fair!"_

_"__Honey, calm down and listen. They're just doing an investigation. Trust me, the Sheriff and I are going to do whatever we can to keep you in Beacon Hills. Of course, if that's what you want."_

_"__Of course that's what I want!"_ Stiles is getting a little worked up, his heart racing a bit. _"__I-I can't go back into the foster system. I won't go back into the system."_

_"__Sweetie, watch your breathing. Like I said, it's a customary review of your living situation and whether it's detrimental to your health."_

_"__I'm turning eighteen in three months. Did you tell them that? I'm turning eighteen in three months!"_

_"__I know. But given the… special circumstances, they seem to believe that putting you back into a stable home might be better—"_

_"__Stable home? Is that what they're calling them now? Because I have anecdotal proof that 75% of the homes I was put in were anything _but_stable."_

_"__I know, but—"_

_"__I'll run away. You tell them that. If they even think about putting me back into the system, I'll run away. As far away from Beacon Hills as possible."_

Scott shuts his eyes.

**A/N: So… the plot thickens! Ties between Chris, Derek, and the old Hale House? And other little foreshadowing tidbits! (Because you know how much I love to foreshadow!**

**Please leave a note if you have time! Much love!**


	7. Chapter 6: Party Guessed

**So, I've decided a course of action is to use elements and character from the new season. There's no deadpool, but I'm keeping people like Garrett and Violet and such. And for the timeline: Since it's over a year since Mexico, everyone's a senior, except for Liam, obviously, who is a sophomore.**

**And I am trying to incorporate as many characters as possible, it's just hard because then it's easy to get really distracted and lost. But I try and make my fics as all-inclusive as I can, without losing sight of the plot. Alrighty-then!**

**And yes, the chapter title is reference to one of my favorite episodes from Season Two. :)**

Chapter 6

_Party Guessed_

"McCall!"

Coach shouts and Scott barely hears him, focusing on how Stiles is tweaking his prosthetic on the edge of the bench. It's sort of transfixing to watch. His nimble fingers works around the metal, bending his leg around until he stretched it and everything was straight. "Yeah, Coach?" He asks, still not taking his eyes off of his best friend.

Coach trudges up to Scott, his gaze falling on Stiles as well. "So, he's trying out, then?" he asks, his voice hesitant – something Coach almost never is.

Scott looks at him. "Yeah," Scott says. "He said he's been antsy ever since he got to Beacon Hills and thinks that lacrosse will help get out his energy."

Coach sighs, his eye twitching as Stiles stands and trips over his own bag. "Would I be a bad person if I cut him just because I'm not sure if I can deal with this?"

"We have to see if it'll trigger anything, Coach." Scott says softly. "I get that it's not going to be easy, but you have me and Danny. We can help."

"I guess that's true," Coach grumbles, stiffening as Stiles makes his way over to the two. "Stili – uh, Stuart… Smith?"

"That's me!" Stiles says cheerfully. "Now, full warning: I've never played lacrosse before so I'm gonna suck something awful. If you want me to just run around and be a diversion for others, that's totally fine too. You know, at my last foster home, someone tried to teach me basketball and I managed to actually pass the ball against the wall, it hit me in the face, and I was knocked out for five minutes. _Five minutes_. Can you believe that? It's not even a contact sport – you get a whistle blown at you if you tackle anyone. Can you imagine what sort of trouble I can get into with a contact sport? _Can you even imagine?"_

"Son, I'm confused," Coach says. "Are you trying to convince me of all the reasons why I _shouldn't_ put you on the team?"

Stiles shrugs. "Well, I do believe you deserve to have all the information so you can make an informed decision. I'm all about informed decisions."

Coach clearly is struggling. "I-I'm sure you are. Shit," he breathes, shaking his head. Scott can see the panic in his eyes. And the longing. "Well, get ready, we're about to start."

Stiles nods, frowning as Coach shuffles away, casting a few glances behind his shoulder at the teen. Stiles stares back – probably for lack of anything else to do – but says, "He already hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," Scott says quietly.

"He hates me! I started motor-mouthing and he already hates me!"

Scott claps a gloved-hand on Stiles back. "He doesn't hate you. Now just remember, we all have been playing lacrosse for years, so it's okay if you feel a little lost. Ask me or Danny – hell, even Liam can help. I know he's only a sophomore, but he's crazy good. Everyone's really nice anyway and I'm sure they'd be more than willing to help regardless."

"Okay," Stiles whispers to himself. He peers at the stands, which are slowly starting to fill. "Does everyone come to these tryouts?" He gulps, clutching the stick closer to him as people sat down. "They're just tryouts. They shouldn't be that important."

"Lacrosse is a big deal here," Scott says. "People want to see how good the team will be for the season."

In the stands, Malia and Lydia make their way to sit down, waving at the two boys once they catch their eyes. Scott chuckles as the color leaves Stiles' face as his eyes trace the two women.

"Oh God," Stiles says, his voice cracking a little bit. "This was a terrible idea."

"This was a _great_ idea." Scott laughs, squeezing him into a side hug.

Except it _was_ a great idea. It was like a switch. As soon as Stiles stepped onto the field and Coach started behaving like he usually did and barking orders at everyone, Stiles just… did it. Scott knows that muscle memory is a powerful thing, but he didn't realize _how_ powerful. Sure, Stiles was never the best player on the team, but that didn't mean he didn't know what he was doing. He'd been playing the sport for years and even as a bench warmer, he still had the basic skills.

Coach watched him peculiarly the entire time, pulling Scott aside through half the tryouts. "I'm gonna try something," he says to Scott.

Scott frowns. "Is it something helpful?"

"Are you doubting my ideas, McCall?"

Scott's eyes grow wide. "N-No, never Coach. I was just…"

"Shut up, McCall. Go stand over by the goal." Coach blows his whistle. "Two-on-ones! McCall, Smith – defense! Let's see how you new recruits do!"

Stiles jogs over to where Scott is, twirling his lacrosse stick through his hands. "Wow, I've never been a 'natural' at anything in my life, but lacrosse just makes _sense_, you know?"

Scott laughs. "Totally get it. Lacrosse is awesome." He points at the line forming. "So what we have to do is stop them from scoring. I mean, it's two-against-one. We should destroy them."

Stiles smiles as he pulls his helmet back on. "Got it." He hits his hand with his lacrosse stick. "Stuart – the Destroyer of Worlds!"

And 'got it,' he does. The two stop everyone – including a begrudging Liam – as Danny laughs in the goal behind them. Stiles jumps around, smiling as he does so. He takes his helmet off and runs over to Danny, excitedly talking about how he thinks lacrosse may be the best sport ever created.

A kid walks up to the Coach after he blows his last whistle, his eyes fierce. "That kid shouldn't be allowed to play at all. He has an unfair advantage."

Scott assumes irrationally that the teen figured out that he was part werewolf and sometimes used his superhuman abilities to play lacrosse. But then, is entirely surprised when his lacrosse stick is pointed at Stiles, who is animatedly talking to Danny. Both Stiles and Danny pause when they notice the teen – Scott thinks his name is Garrett – yelling.

"Excuse me?" Coach asks.

Garrett rips his pads off. "He has an unfair advantage – he literally has a piece of technology on his leg. How are we supposed to compete with someone who isn't even all human?"

Scott watches as Stiles stiffens at that comment.

"Garrett, don't be a dickhead." Danny laughs uneasily, waving his comments aside. He stands closer to Stiles, who's looking at the ground. "You know you're full of shit. You lost to Smith and McCall. Get over it. Be a sore loser in the shower."

"Shut up, Danny," Garrett snaps.

"Hey!" Scott shouts. "Don't tell Danny to shut up!" Danny rolls his eyes at the response.

Stiles approaches the scene, frowning. "What are you saying? That because I lost my leg and have struggled for the past year to deal with a prosthetic, I'm somehow able to do things you can't do? Are you seriously that much of an idiot?"

"No," Garrett says. "That's the reason you're a freak. That metal piece of shit is giving you an advantage."

"Now listen here asshole—" Stiles starts, but Coach puts a hand on his chest.

"Enough!" Coach bellows, blowing his whistle. "Garrett, in my office in five minutes! Everyone else – hit the showers!"

Scott watches as Stiles face falls, the creaking from the metal prosthetic a little louder than he remembered. "Garrett's a dick," Scott says, clapping his hand around his shoulders. "I know you're new here and wouldn't know, but that's nothing new. He's a dick."

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says, his eyes to the ground.

"No really, he totally is." Danny says, on his other side. "He is the actual worst. We only tolerate him because he has a nice slapshot."

Stiles gives a small grin, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Look," Scott states. "I know that was exactly what you were worried about, but don't let him bother you. It's one opinion. And you have us, who don't agree with it. And are you going to put one jackass's opinion over ours?"

Stiles doesn't answer for a while, but then groans. "Do you really have to give me puppy dog eyes? Like, is that an actual thing?"

Danny chuckles. "He's pretty good at those, isn't he?"

Scott laughs. "Just think – in a couple hours, we'll be at Lydia's party and you won't even remember this ever happening!"

**XXX**

By the time he reaches Lydia's house, Stiles needed a new word to replace 'nervous.' A human being shouldn't be sweating this much. He blames it on the fact that he left Claudia at home – mainly because he isn't sure if she would be able to detect a panic attack with this many people anyway and he didn't want the poor animal to get hurt in the process. But he's lying to himself.

He seems to be doing a lot of that lately.

Stiles straightens up and pulls at the collar of his polo shirt and rings the doorbell. He only has to wait a few minutes until it opens up, revealing a beautiful Lydia.

Stiles can't help it – his mouth falls open. Her hair falls softly at her shoulders, half up and half down, a few intricate braids running over her bangs. She's in a dress that's tighter that what she usually wears to school and he has to actively remind himself not to stare. "Stuart?" She asks puzzledly, opening the door.

"I-I thought your party started at nine?" He asks.

Lydia laughs. "Nine usually means ten in teen world. But come in! You can help me finish setting up."

Chastising himself for appearing so lame – _again_ – Stiles enters the house. He's not sure what else needs to be done, everything looks tidy and prepared, but he walks into the kitchen regardless. "Here, chop these, if you don't mind." Lydia says, handing him some vegetables and a knife. "Not that anyone's going to eat vegetables, but I like having options."

"It's very wise." Stiles says quietly.

The two work in an uncomfortable silence – Stiles would like to refer it as sexual tension, but he's pretty sure that Lydia doesn't look at him sexually in the slightest – and then it becomes too much. "Did you and Stiles date?" he asks before he can stop himself. He'd been wondering this for a while, but he really isn't sure what he can ask about the teenager who shares his face.

Lydia slips and nearly cuts off her finger. The knife clatters to the floor, but she ignores it. "What?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I asked that." Stiles mutters. "I have no filter."

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"No, we didn't date," Lydia says, her voice soft. "I didn't realize how I felt about him until it was too late."

"When he was taken?"

"No," Lydia says softly. "And yes. Not when he was kidnapped, but taken by someone else."

Stiles nods. "He started dating someone else."

Lydia nods. "Yeah. Malia, actually. He was helping her with a few things and they bonded when they both were… well, in vulnerable situations. They helped each other out when they didn't have anyone else and their relationship just sorta happened from there. Stiles never dated anyone, so I never really knew what it would feel like when the option was taken away. I didn't like it at all, it turns out. Then again, I would have that feeling of jealousy for the rest of my life if it meant he came back home."

"You never really know what you have until it's gone." Stiles mutters distantly.

"Yeah."

Lydia bites her lip. "Would you like to see something of his? If you're so curious about the type of person he was."

Stiles blinks. A part of him – the rational part, actually – knows this is a bad idea. The more he gets wrapped up in Stiles' world, he knows the more he'll be a replacement for Stiles – not his own person.

But it's Lydia.

"Sure," he says.

Stiles follows her up into her room, marveling at how neat and put together everything is. She opens her closet and pulls out a stool, reaching as far as she can until she brings back a shoebox. She brings it down and sits on her bed, motioning for Stiles to follow. He does, but hesitantly. This is a bad idea. One of his worst.

But he does it anyway.

Lydia opens the weathered box, revealing a bunch of little items packed in together. "I've been wanting to look at these things, but I'm afraid to do it on my own." She admits. She pulls out an old ticket stub, ripped down the middle, revealing only the words "TER FORMAL." "My best friend… well, older best friend," Stiles notices how her words catch on 'best friend.' He doesn't pry though. He understands that certain things demand privacy, especially as a foster child, he's granted none. "made me take Stiles to the formal as punishment for something. I was really mad about it. I knew he'd had a crush on me for ages – since the third grade, but he was this dorky, lanky, bench warmer nobody. I was so mad. But it ended up being the best dance I ever had – ending, aside. He told me I was beautiful and he yelled at me for acting like an idiot when he knew I was the smartest person in our year. He made me feel brave."

Lydia's eyes fill with tears as she sets it aside. She pulls out a small wallet with the words 'Prada' printed all over this, laughing as she does so. "There were these weird deaths that were happening in town a while back, and Stiles was trying to make all these connections. He was always doing that – making connections that no one else could see. For a while, all the victims had small dogs and he was trying to convince me to get rid of my dog, Prada. He showed up the next day with this wallet that he must've spent all his savings on, with a note that said, "Now you have a Prada replacement. Will you _please_ think about getting rid of your dog?" I can't remember laughing so hard."

Stiles laughs in spite of himself, but he can't help but feel something tugging in his chest. Something that is completing these stories for him, knowing how they end before Lydia finishes. He shakes his head.

Lydia pulls out an old flannel, her thin fingers clutching the fabric. She holds it tightly and brings it up to her face. For a second, Stiles thinks she's going to bury her face in it, but she stops. "This was one of the scariest days of my life. We were doing something to save his dad, Scott's mom, and A-Allison's dad. It was stupid and scary and we shouldn't have ever done it. But Stiles knew how scared I was and took his flannel off. He really liked to wear flannel. He handed it to me and said as long as I remembered what he smelled like, I could pull him back because smell is the strongest sense. He always said he was pungent."

Lydia brings it to her nose and takes a deep breath, but her eyes are sad when they open. "It's going away," she says, her voice breaking. Stiles can see the tears forming in her eyes as her lips tremble. "I can't smell him anymore."

Without thinking about what he's doing or the implications of such, Stiles reaches out and places a hand on hers. Lydia freezes, but then relaxes under his touch. "I am so sorry for your loss." He says, as genuinely as he can.

Her eyes fill with tears and Stiles can't bear the sight of them. Bringing his hand up to her face, he uses his thumb to brush them away, trying to ignore the fact of how she leans into his palm as he does so. He can feel himself leaning closer, even though everything is telling him to stop.

Their lips brush against each other's and Stiles is telling himself to stop.

_Ding dong._

The two leap apart, Stiles flailing until he falls off the bed. "Oh God, people are here." Lydia breathes, gathering up the pieces of the box and shoving them back inside. She runs over and puts the box away, wiping under her eyes and smoothing her dress.

Stiles still can't believe that almost happened. He almost _kissed_ Lydia. While she was _crying_. What a _creep_. "Lydia, I—" he started, trying to calm the embarrassment creeping on his cheeks. "I'm so sorry. That was… it was wrong what I did and I—"

Lydia finishes putting herself back together and takes the few short strides to Stiles. Wrapping her arms around him, she breathes into his neck, "It's okay. It's okay, Stuart. I'm just really glad you're here."

Stiles isn't sure of what to do, so he returns the hug that he understands nothing about. He hates that his heart is overpowering his brain at the moment, forcing him to hold onto Lydia tightly and not want to let go.

But he does and so does Lydia, soon disappearing when the bell ringing gets louder.

As far as high school parties go, Stiles assumes this one is a good one. There's a ton of people here and everyone's really loud and drunk. Stiles himself hasn't taken anything to drink. He tells himself that it's because he doesn't want to lose his grant, but there's something in the back of his head that says otherwise. Like he's had a bad drinking experience in this household, even though he knows that's not possible.

Scott has been in and out, bringing a girl named Kira whom Stiles takes a liking to instantly. She plays lacrosse, has a vast knowledge of Japanese culture, _and_ has seen _Star Wars_ multiple times which, to Stiles' horror, he finds out that Scott hasn't seen even once. The two talk animatedly as Scott makes conversation with Danny, who is quite possibly the coolest person Stiles has ever met, in his honest opinion.

"We should have a movie night!" Kira says excitedly after Stiles laments for the third time about Scott's movie education inadequacy. "We can watch the first three all in one night!"

"I wholeheartedly accept this idea," Stiles says with a laugh. "I can't believe Scott hasn't seen _Star Wars_, it's like a crime against humanity!"

Scott, who looks over when he hears his name a handful of times, rolls his eyes. "Shockingly, I've had better things to do with my time than watch space movies."

"Nothing is more important that _Star Wars_, Scott." Stiles says solemnly. "We can use my apartment, as long as you guys don't start a rave and trash it. The only thing you'll have to be weary of is my neighbor, who is the creepiest cougar you'll ever meet."

"Aren't cougars a good thing?" Danny asks.

Stiles shakes his head. "Not this one. This one is quite possibly the scariest woman I've ever met. Not that she's really done anything, I just get a bad vibe from her. And I have a natural radar for evil people."

"What'd she do?" Kira asks.

"She just… stares at me weird. Asks if she can borrow things. Last night, I got home, and she had her door open and she was _sharpening knives_ _in her underwear_. Who does that?"

Scott and Danny snort. Danny claps a hand on his shoulder. "Don't see the problem, bro."

Stiles shrugs it off. "You don't understand how creepy this woman is."

"We have a pretty high tolerance for creepy around here," Danny laughs.

"I know when I being made fun of!" Stiles shouts, indignant. "I'm off to get some water and wade my way through the murky pool of teenage hormones to do so. Does anyone else want anything?"

Everyone only laughs in response and he waves them aside, pushing his way through people as he tries to make his way to the kitchen. He frowns at the mess that's all over Lydia's house, but she's in a deep conversation with a few guys in the corner, so he supposes she doesn't particularly care. He looks for an empty cup when someone puts a drink in his face.

"Can't be empty-handed at a party!"

Stiles blinks, taking what was shoved in front of his face simply so he wouldn't run into it. "Uh, thanks." He says, frowning at the person before him. She was young, but beautiful with a smooth complexion and big eyes.

"Violet," she says with a smirk. "I made it for a bunch of people and they seem to be enjoying it."

"I'm actually not drinking tonight." Stiles says, setting the cup back on the table.

"One drink won't hurt you," she purrs. "Just take a sip. And if you don't like it, I'll give it to someone else."

He stares at the drink. It looks harmless enough. "What is with the women in my life being creepy as hell?"

He takes a quick sip – damn, it _was_ good – and sets the cup back down. "Happy?" he asks, grabbing a water bottle that's off to the side.

"Very."

Stiles frowns, turning without saying goodbye. As he makes his way through the sea of teenagers, he starts to feel a little… off. Like his insides are swirling around, churning too quickly. It makes him lightheaded and he leans against a doorframe for support. He watches people jump in and out of the pool, laughing and screaming.

He's so tired.

God, a sophomore drugged him. Drugged him… for what? This is stupid. He shouldn't be this tired from a stupid—

Then, he sees him.

He sees Stiles.

Except, he doesn't look like the Stiles in the photos on Facebook. He looks younger, a little more naïve, his hair buzzed. He's standing by a post, his eyes red and watery.

_"__It's you."_

The poisonous words are spat from someone in the area. Stiles is shocked to find the Sheriff, out of uniform, clutching a bottle of Jack. "S-Sheriff?" Stiles asks, blinking rapidly. His heart starts fluttering at a quick pace.

_"__It's you, Stiles."_

Stiles looks over at the kid, cowering in the corner, his eyes widening.

_"__You killed her. And now you're killing me."_

The Sheriff swings back and throws the bottle at the pillar where Stiles is, and Stiles can't help but yelp out, slipping, until he falls on the ground. He scrambles to his feet so he can possibly help the teen, keep others from stepping on glass, but then…

They're both gone.

Stiles blinks a few times, his heart picking up tempo. He clutches his chest, breathing coming more difficultly than before. People around him are staring, some are laughing. A guy he's never met before hits his back and laughs, "Party hard, bro!"

Stiles manages to detach himself and scramble away, tears stinging his eyes. He looks over where Scott, Kira, and Danny are talking – now joined by Lydia and Malia – it hurts to do so. For some reason looking at all of them together makes his chest ache, like he _needs_ to go over and rejoin them.

_"__Scotty! Scotty!"_

The words echo in his head, shattering the calm that once resided.

_"__Scotty! Don't let my dad—"_

The words are so scared, so determined. They are _his_ voice, but they're _not _his voice and he isn't sure of how that can be.

So Stiles does the one thing he can do. The one thing he's good at.

He runs.

**XXX**

He doesn't know why he ends up here.

Stiles looks at the house before him and he feels safe. He ran until he could breathe again, until his crumbling chest finally felt like it was whole.

The house is nice, but unassuming. The windows are dark and there's no car in the driveway. He takes a few steps up to the garage. He looks over to the tree, which looks like it's been hit with too many things over the years. Things like lacrosse sticks and baseball bats and wiry children. Stiles shakes his head.

What is he doing?

Besides trespassing on someone else's property while in the midst of a mental breakdown?

He panics when a pair of headlights shines on him and make him cower. "Shit," he breathes as the car comes up.

Then he panics further when he notices the police lights on top of the car and then even further when the Sheriff gets out of the car. "Stuart?" he asks.

"Sheriff!" Stiles gasps, quickly wiping the tears from his eyes. "Oh God,"

"What are you doing here, son?" The Sheriff asks, shutting the car door.

"I-I'm sorry," he says, feeling his panic rise again. "I-I don't k-know."

The Sheriff puts his hand up, but Stiles sees it in double. "Kid," he warns.

"I-I don't know why I'm here!" He cries out, tears falling down his face. "I don't understand. I-I don't get why I'm here."

"Okay," the Sheriff says calmly. "That's okay. Why don't we go inside and we can talk about it."

"I-I don't know what to talk about! I don't know what's wrong with me!" He gasps, clutching his chest. "I-I'm seeing things that don't make sense and hearing things t-that—t-that—"

The trembling got worse. He felt the blackness creep up in his vision. He shut his eyes tightly, his body starting to convulse.

"Okay, Stuart, listen to my voice. Listen—"

But he _couldn't_ listen. His world was darkening. Shaking. He felt his legs give out from under him, but he doesn't hit the ground. He feels arms wrap around him, constricting his chest so that he can't bring himself into a panic. It's cut off before it starts, suffocating the panic until the world comes back into focus again.

His breath steadies.

"H-How did you do that?" Stiles asks shakily, stepping out of the embrace.

"Why don't you come in for some tea?" the Sheriff asks, his face hard to read. "We can talk. It doesn't have to be about your foster system or anything. We can talk about lacrosse. Or whatever you like."

For a reason that Stiles can't even imagine, he finds himself saying, "Yeah."

The Sheriff leads him into the house, but for some reason – luck, it has to be – Stiles doesn't need a tour. He walks straight the kitchen, blinking as he does so, just as his hand is about to reach for a cupboard. "Oh, sorry," he says, taking his hand away. "I don't know why I did that."

"It's fine." The Sheriff says, reaching over Stiles to the exact same cupboard, grabbing a few mugs from them.

Stiles tries not to think about it.

They sit at the table in an uncomfortable silence, Stiles taking sips of his tea and ignoring how much it calms him down. "How's your time in Beacon Hills going?" He asks.

"It's—" Stiles isn't sure of how to answer that question, to be honest. "Been interesting. I'm… sorry. I don't know why I was here. I was panicking and I ran here. I don't know why I came to your house. I swear I wasn't doing anything bad or planning on doing anything bad."

The Sheriff chuckles and waves his fresh panic aside. "I didn't think you were. But, would you mind me asking why were you panicking?"

Stiles bites his lip, unsure if he should even share. "Were you at Lydia's party tonight?"

The Sheriff frowns. "Her party? No, I stay far, far away from those. I don't need to know what teenagers do on their weekend unless it puts them in harm's way."

That's what Stiles was afraid of. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel like I'm straight up losing my mind since I got here. I don't know what to do, Sheriff. I don't know."

The Sheriff hesitates, but puts his hand on Stiles shoulder. "You're okay. You're in a strange situation. And I know how challenging it must be for you."

"It's just," Stiles say, getting out of his seat and looking out the kitchen window. Anything to stop looking at the Sheriff. "I feel like I'm only getting a piece of the puzzle. That people aren't telling me everything and I can't make a proper decision about my life because people are keeping things from me."

The Sheriff sighs. "Stuart—"

"_I'm not stupid!_" Stiles shouts, clenching his fists at his sides. "I _know_ when people are lying to me! I've been in the foster system, remember? I _know_ when—"

Stiles shouting is cut off when someone slams their fist on the door. The Sheriff jumps from his seat, his face concerned, staring down the hall. Stiles watches as his hands hover over his gun as he walks down the hall. He slowly opens the door.

"Lydia?"

Stiles peeks where the Sheriff has gone to, watching as a rain-soaked Lydia pushes past him to where Stiles is standing in the hallway. "Lydia?" He asks. "Are you okay?"

Her eyes are distant. Looking and not looking at the same time. She lifts a hand, her fingers trembling. Lydia places her quaking palm onto Stiles' chest. "Um, Lydia, everything alright? Are you—"

Then she opens her mouth and screams.

**A/N: Kinda an homage to the last episode! I really liked that scene, to be honest, because Lydia's powers – especially with how up in the air they are – make them really freaky. And Holland does such a good job.**

**Please leave a note if you have the time! Much love!**


	8. Chapter 7: Purple Flowers

**Thank you so much for your thoughts and lovely comments! It's always nice to see what you think and how you think the story's going to go. I do realize I have a lot of sub-plots going on, but hopefully it'll all come together and make sense in the long run!**

**Let's get started! Anyone else curious about the finale in a few days? It seems like there's quite a few story lines that need wrapping up!**

Chapter 7

_Purple Flowers_

_Stiles isn't sure of how long they left him there._

_They left him, of all places, in a cage. There was probably something ironically and horribly poetic about that, but all he could feel was the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the fear that seeped into his bones. Because, at the time, he didn't really think about what he was doing and what the consequences would be. He saw Lady Calaveras approaching Scott and talking about selling him, among other things, and all his brain could do was panic and say, "No no no no, protect my brother protect my brother."_

_It didn't really think anything else through._

_So now, Stiles was in a cage. A cage where he isn't sure if he'd been there for days or even longer than a week. The only reason he knows it's not a month is because he isn't dead yet. Comforting._

_He gave up on someone bursting through the door and saving him a little while ago. He held onto a kernel of hope – because let's face it, it's Scott – but as time passed and no one came, Stiles couldn't help but find the corner of the cage and curl up into it, trying to conserve as much heat and energy as possible._

_It wasn't long until shivering became the new norm. If the Nogitsune taught him anything – and unfortunately that list was longer than he wished – that shivering is a good sign._

_It's when the shivering stops that he has to be concerned._

_But the rusty door finally slides open, the noise seemingly like a cannon and the lights blinding enough for Stiles to curl his head under his arms. "What a spectacle," the low purr of Lady Calaveras asks, her tone too light for Stiles to ever fathom. "curled up in a ball, waiting to die. He's inside here, gentlemen."_

_Stiles scrambles to his feet when he hears her call them in, falling back down almost instantly. Laughter erupts from the group of people as they enter the room, surrounding the cage that has been his home for the past few days. "He's a lot smaller than I thought he would be," one of the people say with a chuckle. "You'd think someone with the capacity to survive a Nogitsune would be a little more…impressive."_

_"__If you don't believe me," Lady Calaveras says with a huff. "Simply check the markings on his back. It should give you everything you need to know."_

_The men reach through the bars of the cage, but Stiles manages to slip out of their grasp. "What the hell!" He exclaims. "Don't touch me!"_

_"__He's spirited, I'll give him that." The same man says. "Could you help us out?"_

_"__Gladly," Lady Calaveras says. _

_Stiles, who is standing in the middle of the cage, trying to remain as far away from all the grasping hands as he possibly can, continuously whirls around, trying not to think of everyone grabbing him. He holds his arms close to his chest, alert for anything and anyone._

_Which, of course, is why he doesn't expect Lady Calaveras to stick her collapsible werewolf Taser in the cage and turn it on._

_Stiles crumbles to the ground without so much as a shriek, the electricity hitting him too fiercely for any other reaction. His body twitches and he can vaguely see someone's hand reach out above him, forcing him to slide closer to the bars. His head hits the metal a little harder than he would've like, someone turning him over so he lies on his stomach. His entire body curls with distaste and disgust as he feels the countless amounts of hands and fingers run up and down his neck and shoulders. _

_"__Very, very interesting," some people mutter as others pull him closer to the bars._

_If he was in control of his body at the moment, he's not sure he could even stop himself from throwing up._

_"__Excellent," the man stands up, brushing his hands on his trousers. "Just as lovely as you promised. I believe all we need to do now is speak about a price."_

_Lady Calaveras nods, gesturing grandly for the gentlemen to follow her._

_Stiles is beginning to be able to control the spasms in his legs, shakily getting to a sitting position. "I am not an animal," he manages to weakly spit out, even though he's certain no one can hear him._

_Everyone starts to leave, but Stiles grips the bars of the cage as tightly as he can. "I am not an animal!" He shouts, pressing his face against the bars. "I am not an animal!"_

_After everyone else leaves the room, Lady Calaveras gives Stiles one last, small smile._

_"__I wonder how long you'll be able to tell yourself that, dear."_

_"__What do you get out of this?" Stiles exclaims, tears filling his eyes. "What could you possibly gain from selling human beings?"_

_Lady Calaveras hesitates when he says that, something wild and fiery brewing in her eyes. She says something to the gentlemen in the other room, closing the door behind her. "Human beings?" She spits, taking several aggressive strides over to him. "Human beings? You dare call yourself and your stupid, infantile pack of mutts human beings? You all are a genetic mutation. A disgrace. A flaw in the system. You are nothing more than something that should be eliminated."_

_"__We are teenagers!" Stiles cries for what feels like the millionth time. "We are people. You treat Scott and Kira as lower beings, but you should really look yourself in the mirror before you start declaring people 'monsters!'"_

_Lady Calaveras reaches into the cage, pulling at his collar so his head slams against the bars of the cage. He has to blink a few times for the world to come back to focus, but when he does, he's met with pain and the world tilting on its axis._

_"__Listen here, you excuse for a—"_

_The words are cut short when the door slides open once more, a figure stepping into the room. "I'm sorry I'm late. I got a little held up in the club," a voice says._

_Stiles blinks. He knows that voice. It's familiar. Not safe, but he knows it._

_Lady Calaveras drops Stiles so he crumbles onto the ground, grabbing the sides of his throbbing head. He tries to make the world swim back into focus, but isn't sure how. It isn't until Lady Calaveras' next words does the world stop spinning._

_"__Peter Hale. Why this certainly is a surprise."_

_Peter steps into the light, a smirk on his face. "If you think that my entrance is noteworthy, I'm about to make you an offer you can't refuse."_

**XXX**

"I don't _know_, Scott!" The Sheriff all but yells into the phone, casting a look at Lydia, who's sitting on their couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "I am literally the last person on earth who would have any clue as what to do in this situation. You've dealt with Lydia's powers on a more consistent basis than I and I'm really at a loss of what to do."

_"__So what exactly happened?"_

The Sheriff jumps when the tea kettle starts yelling, pouring the hot water over the tea bag he prepared for Lydia. "She walked into the house – I swear it was like she was in a trance. And then she put her hand on Stiles' chest and just _screamed_. It almost knocked some of the pictures off of the walls."

_"__She screamed… at Stiles?!"_

"Yeah," he responds, frowning. "Why do you sound freaked out about that? What does that mean, Scott? What aren't you telling me?"

Scott doesn't answer for a moment. The Sheriff can practically see the puzzled expression he's wearing as he trying to figure out exactly how to explain this to the Sheriff without actually freaking him out. _"__Can I talk to Lydia really quick?"_ The Sheriff opens his mouth to argue, but Scott cuts him off. _"__I promise I'll explain, but I need to speak to Lydia really quick."_

The Sheriff groans, but walks into the living room and hands the phone to the teen. He also gives her the mug of tea, to which she flinches at the heat, but then gives him a smile. She brings the phone up to her ear and says, "Hello?"

The Sheriff can hear Scott speaking at a quick pace, rambling about who knows what. The Sheriff is annoyed, but makes a point with himself to make sure not to let him avoid telling him what this meant.

But then he realized how quiet the house was.

"Stiles?" The Sheriff asks and then he sighs. "I mean, uh, Stuart? Damn."

The Sheriff doesn't truly know how he's supposed to rationally deal with the new chain of circumstances, but dammit, he'll try. But Stiles isn't anywhere to be seen.

The Sheriff feels something creeping up his spine. He asked him to get Lydia a blanket, without even thinking about it. And Stiles did. He walked straight to the linen closet, grabbed the blanket that Stiles always used after his mother died, and wrapped it around Lydia, leading her to the couch.

But there was something else. _After _he went to the linen closet and _after_ he led Lydia straight to the couch. Stiles stopped, stood straight up, his eyes trailing from the linen closet that he simply walked over to and the blanket he grabbed without thought, and the trek to the couch he made without question.

Then the Sheriff called Scott. His attention disappeared and so did Stiles.

That's a pattern in his life that is the cruelest of all.

"Oh crap," the Sheriff breathes, running over to the hallway.

The door is cracked open. Barely. The way doors do when someone is too panicked to shut it all the way. Like, their minds aren't coherent enough to shut off all the thoughts, why should the doors close?

Ajar.

"Oh crap!" The Sheriff repeats. "Lydia, tell Scott you're going to have to call him back."

**XXX**

He runs.

Stiles knows that running away from his problems for the second time in the evening is probably not the best way to really deal with his problems, but that was the main thing: this is a problem.

Because he didn't even think about it. He _knew_ where the blankets were, just like he _knew _where the living room was and he _knew_ where the mugs were held. He ran to the Sheriff's house when he was panicking and he talked to the Sheriff about things he never spoke to anyone about.

Stiles isn't stupid. He knows that this probably all means something. But he's afraid of what it means.

By the time he reaches his apartment, he's sweating. His polo that he so carefully picked out for Lydia's party is clinging to him and the underside of his hair is wet.

But when Lydia screamed…

It's like it awakened something within his bones. The scream reverberated every part of him, leaving dents and whispers in his soul. Stiles grabs his head, which is pounding. When she screamed, he heard it multiple times, each arising in him a panic that grew in intensity as it echoed.

_"__Scotty! Please make sure my dad—"_

He shakes his head, trying to get the plea out of the confines of his mind. The cry of the voice that sounded like his, but _wasn't_ his.

_"__Scott! Please make sure my dad is okay! Make sure he understands, Scotty! Make sure he understands!"_

"Stop it!" Stiles shouts, crumbling so he buries his face in his knees.

"Rough night?"

Stiles jumps to his feet, trying to discreetly wipe the tears from his eyes. "Huh?"

Kate steps toward, a seductive smile curling on her lips as she takes in Stiles up and down. "Do you need help up to your apartment?"

Stiles takes a quick step backwards. "No, I-I'm good, thanks."

Kate pouts. "Why so anxious, sweetie? I'm certain I can help you with whatever you need."

"I'm fine. I'm really fine."

"Why don't you come in for some tea."

"No," Stiles accidentally says a bit too quickly, but she only smiles at him.

"You always say no to my invitations. You're going to give me a complex, sweetie."

Stiles grimaces. "Well, I need to check on Claudia. I've been gone all evening."

Kate grabs his arm and Stiles visibly flinches. "Just one cup of tea won't kill you. Just one and I won't pester you ever again."

Stiles weighs his options. He can either put his mental breakdown on pause momentarily and go against every instinct in his body and get one fraternization with this woman over with. Or he can blow her off again and have her harass him for the foreseeable future.

Stiles groans. "Fine. One cup of tea, then I have to go to bed."

"One cup of tea." Kate says with a smile.

To be honest, Stiles thought Kate's home would be filled a myriad of questionable objects, but it looked pretty regular. There was a couch and even a television – a small one, but it was there. She busies around the kitchen, barely making any noise as she does so.

"So Stuart," she asks, her back turned to him. "Where were you before you came to Beacon Hills?"

Stiles blinks, wondering how people seem to be so comfortable asking him the most personal questions without a cursory introduction. "Uh, down by L.A."

"Really? I have some family down there."

"Cool," Stiles mutters, wringing his hands in his lap for a lack of better things to do.

"So, how long have you been in the foster system?"

Stiles stares. "Are all your questions going to be this personal?"

Kate smiles, turning around and bringing to mugs over. She hands one to Stiles, who merely stares at it. It contains a purple flower he'd never seen before. "What kind of tea is this?" He asks, unsure.

"A blend I get shipped in. It's a family recipe." She says, bringing the mug to her own lips.

Stiles remains unsure, and instead uses the mug to warm his hands. "I was in the foster system for seven months."

"How long were you in the hospital after your car crash?"

Stiles sets the mug down, shaking his head. "I never said anything about a car crash. How did you know about that?"

Kate laughs. "It's a small town. Word passes quickly."

"A month." Stiles says through gritted teeth. He figures the sooner he answers her questions, the sooner he gets to leave.

"And you can't remember anything before that?"

"Okay, you're making me incredibly uncomfortable." Stiles says, standing up from the couch and moving to leave.

She grabs his arm, her nails poking his skin, almost painfully. "Stay. We have so much to talk about."

"Well, I don't have anything to speak to you about," he growls, wrenching his arm out of her grasp.

He almost makes it to the door when she says, "You forgot your tea."

Stiles doesn't turn around. He opens the door and slams it, his mind filled with purple flowers.

**XXX**

_He runs._

_Stiles runs like his life depends on it. Because, oh wait, it does._

_He can barely feel his legs, but he manages to push himself further and faster. His heart beats so loudly, he's certain his rib cage isn't strong enough to contain it._

_He stumbles, falling into a tree. He raises a bloodied hand to push himself off, trying to ignore the intense pain that wraps his entire body. Stiles peers down at his thigh, where they had done it._

_Blood poured too freely and too fast. He needed someone. Something._

_But he couldn't call for help. Because if he yelled, they'd find him faster._

_So instead he ran._

_He ran until his lungs no longer contracted. He ran until his legs gave out. He ran until the pain was too much – everything was too much – and he crumpled on the ground. Stiles notices a road a few yards away and summons every ounce of strength that he has in his body, grabbing the earth below him and pulling himself forward. He drags his broken body further and further, ignoring the searing pain that is exploding from his thigh._

_"__Help," he croaks, his voice old and tired. _

_He makes it the road, but it feels like a marathon. "Help," he tries again._

_Lights flash in his face. _

_Perhaps this is what dying truly feels like._

"No!" Stiles screams, bolting upright.

Sweat sticks to him as his hear races and he nearly falls out of bed when he realizes that Claudia is laying on his waist, her big, brown eyes staring at him in nervousness. Stiles lays back down, putting a hand on his forehead, wet with sweat. Claudia uses this moment to scoot up, putting her paws on his chest and sprawling over his body.

Stiles stays like that – with Claudia pressing all of her weight over him – for a while. Once his breathing calms down, he lifts a hand and scratches behind her ears, raspily saying, "I'm okay. I'm okay." Whether it's for Claudia or himself, he isn't sure.

Stiles spent the weekend holed up in his apartment. He had several missed calls from Scott, Lydia, and even the Sheriff, who tried to sound calm as he asked where he went to when he disappeared from his house on Friday night. But Stiles pressed _ignore_ every time.

He couldn't deal with it. He couldn't deal with the memories and the nightmares and all the questions that arose every time he looked at any of them. So he did one of his favorite tactics:

Ignored the problem in hopes it simply went away.

Plus, the next morning, he woke up and there were a litany of purple flowers littered at his front door. When he poked his head out of the apartment, he saw Kate Argent walking toward her car, a weird smile on her face as she waved her fingers at him.

He tried to brush the flowers away quickly, but they burned into his mind.

Of course, once he stepped into school that Monday, he knew that was just not the case. He shoulders his backpack as he enters the high school, gripping Claudia's leash tightly as he makes his way past the usual gawkers. He's feeling particularly touchy today because his heart picks up its pace every time he makes eye contact with any of them.

He decides the ground is the safest place.

"Stuart!"

He hears Scott calling for him, but he is stuck on deciding whether he should even acknowledge him or not. But, his conscious gets the better of him and he looks up, the guy waving him over, a concerned look on his face. Stiles trudges over, trying to mentally prepare himself for whatever's to come.

"We missed you all weekend. I gotta admit, I was starting to get a little worried." Scott says once he reaches him.

"Yeah, well," Stiles shrugs, determined not to make eye contact.

"Lydia told me what—"

"I know you guys are lying to me about something." Stiles snaps, deciding that ignoring this problem wasn't really helping. "And what happened with Lydia was beyond weird. _Beyond_. So either you guys start being honest, or we can't be friends. It can't happen."

Scott gaze is a little uncomfortable. Stiles can tell he's summing him up – trying to decide whether he's being serious or not, but Stiles remains resolute. While he wants to maintain all the friends he has, this was getting ridiculous.

Scott sighs. "You're right. You're right, and I'm sorry."

Stiles nods, still unable to be warm. "I think that—"

Then something catches his eye.

Without a second thought toward Scott, Stiles makes his way over.

In a small garden conclave outside of the school, there's a small flower garden. Beautiful wildflowers and trees are strange, surrounded by the school brick, but it's a beautiful spot. But that's not what Stiles focuses on.

_ALLISON ARGENT MEMORIAL GARDEN_

Stiles walks over where the plaque is, running his fingers over the Argent name.

Scott approaches him carefully, something unexplainable in his eyes. "You okay?"

"I know that name," Stiles says quietly.

Scott blinks. "Really?" He asks hopefully (for whatever reason is beyond Stiles).

"Does she have an aunt?"

It's Scott's turn to be confused. "…yes? But she died a few years ago."

"Oh," Stiles says quietly. "Then that can't be right."

Scott frowns. "What Argent do you know?"

"Someone named Kate. She's my next door neighbor – the creepy cougar lady. She tried to force feed me a tea with a purple flower that I've never seen before on Friday."

Scott pales. His eyes widen and Stiles genuinely thinks he's about to pass out.

"Oh fu—"

**A/N: Yes! So this is where we are: people are gonna be a little more open with Stuart, especially now that Kate Argent is in the picture. And Peter Hale with the Calaveras! Why do I add so many topsy-turvy things! It would be much easier to write a straight forward story, but of course, I NEVER end up doing that… sigh.**

**Please leave a note if you have the time!**


	9. Chapter 8: Another Puzzle Piece

**Hello! So! It's over for another 9 months! That may actually be for the best for me… haha! I will admit, finale-wise, I probably put it somewhere in the middle because I have one major critique for the entire season, but I still enjoyed it. I mean, I don't watch Teen Wolf to learn the meaning of life, it's just a fun show that I watch on Mondays. **

**Anywho, that has nothing to do with what's going on here! So you have to deal with ME in the hiatus! *evil laughter* Let's get this ish started!**

**Oh! And someone asked about the thigh wound! Yes – I'm so glad you caught that! He was injured at his thigh, but it was more what they DID that was the problem. *maniacal laughter* His leg is amputated below the knee, though.**

Chapter 8

_Another Puzzle Piece_

_It'd been a while since the deal was made._

_The thing is, Stiles knew it. He _knew_it. He knew that Peter should never have been trusted. And yet, for the past year, they let him wander around Beacon Hills as if he never did anything – as if he never bit Scott or tried to kill everyone or traumatized Lydia to come back to life. And Stiles couldn't help but have this buzzing under his skin, a sort of looming presence whenever Peter was around that something wasn't quite right. _

_Of course, that never stopped him from getting a snide remark in or a lasting-stare that was meant to intimidate (Peter usually just rolled his eyes at that), but he didn't really expect this to be where his life lead him. If Stiles has learned one thing, it is to _never_question the radar in his head that tells him someone is evil._

_Never._

_Because, when he does, he gets into these sorts of situations. And by these sorts of situations, he means strapped to a table spread-eagle, his limbs chained down while he waited for the next round of testing._

_He stopped screaming a while ago. He thinks even his vocal cords had given up on him._

_Stiles will admit – a small, self-hating part of him will admit – that when Peter Hale walked into the Calaveras den, he thought that he was saved. That Peter, under some sort of retribution to his crimes against humanity, was going to set Stiles free. At least, that's what he thought when Peter said there was a matter he wanted to discuss with Lady Calaveras._

_However, when the two of them return, looking particularly smug about God-knows what, Stiles knows that all he'd been privy to was wishful thinking. Because if he'd thought that there was any possibility that Peter-freaking-Hale would be buddy-buddy with the Calaveras, he would've had someone lock him up in Eichen House again. _

_As it turns out, the 'God-knows-what' was a deal that ensured Stiles went to Peter and the Calaveras got… something. They got something and if it were up to Stiles, it'd be something fucking priceless because that's what he's worth._

_All Stiles knew is it got him a date with a cold, medical table and the longest days of his life as he for poked and prodded for who knows what reason. All he knows is that the days are blending and the pain isn't going away at all._

_"__Hello again, sweetie."_

_Stiles shuts his eyes at the sound. _

_Now, this one was the big surprise. The surprise upon all surprises that even Stiles still wouldn't wrap his mind around. _

_The first time Kate fucking Argent walked into the room, Stiles actually yelled, "What the actual FUCK!"_

_All he got were snickers in return._

_So, it says a lot for his self-control that as she enters the room today, he's not even shocked by it. But it doesn't mean that bile doesn't rise in his mouth as she runs her fingers across his bare chest. Stiles clamps his mouth shut, just as he had for what felt like weeks now, using every shred of force he had to not utter a sound._

_"__He's getting so boring," Kate says, with a weird sort of mixture of teasing and whine in her voice._

_That must mean that Peter walked in, because someone settles at her side. "I actually think it's rather fun. Seeing how much he can take before he starts rattling off again. I mean, we're past the Adderall withdrawl which, if we're being honest, was the worst thing I'd ever had to witness. And I was burned alive by you."_

_Kate shrugs as if it's all water under the bridge or whatever. Because that can be a thing, apparently._

_"__All I'm saying is that I miss the days when we had an active amount of sarcasm from him. He's kinda like a toy."_

_"__I don't know," Peter says, stepping over to where a cupboard was, rifling through a few items. "He did help us in the long run. Here I thought I would have to drag him away from McCall and then he goes ahead and hands himself over to the Calaveras. I'm a little indebted to the boy."_

_"__You big softie."_

_That came out fond. Fucking _fond_. Stiles nearly breaks his pathetic vow of silence to tell them exactly where they can go and possible a few expletives in between._

_But then his entire chest is on fire._

_Okay, not actual fire. But that may be an improvement, Stiles doesn't know – he's never been burned alive. He'll have to ask Peter to switch places with him so he can compare and contrast. _

_But it feels like hours (in all actuality, it's probably like seconds) before the sensation stops, leaving Stiles gasping. His back had been in a stressed, arched position – something that was a little more regular than he liked these days – and it falls back to the metal table with a clang. He tries to steady his breath, but finds it particularly difficult after feeling like there was something sitting on his chest with the weight of twenty men. Stiles winces. No, thirty. This is some Prince Ali shit right here._

_"__That can be your new toy," Peter says with a shrug, handing Kate something that Stiles is fairly certain he does not want to know about._

_Kate releases a laugh that confirms those fears. She sticks it next to his side and Stiles flinches a little at the cool metal. "Look at how the lamb flinches at the metal? After a while, he's gonna blame us for conditioning him." But she rolls it around his stomach and Stiles isn't sure he can logistically handle the anticipation much longer. "He looks like he's about to cry."_

_It's annoying, but Stiles know that this is a very real possibility. It wouldn't be the first time it happened._

_Stiles focuses on a stain on the ceiling. That's how he's dealt with all of this. All the poking and prodding. The awful days of screaming agony and the nights where he felt the most alone._

_It was dumb, really. This stupid stain. It kinda looked like a wolf, but he may just be delirious. It reminded him of that part in Harry Potter where Harry was looking into his tea leaves and saw the Grim._

_Stiles felt weirdly comforted by that._

_So he focuses on the stain when the pain gets too insurmountable for him to imagine even being able to breathe again. He long gave up on them answering his questions about what the hell they were doing and for what purpose. So he decided not talking would be the best._

_Stiles can't help the yelp that escapes his lips when the metal starts to burn and he can actually smell his flesh cooking. That was a smell he could've lived without. He actually almost breaks and begs them to stop – to stop hurting him like this._

_Then it stops._

_Kate makes a curious noise. "Huh, I really thought that would work."_

_"__Well, it was only the one time," Peter says absently. "We'll figure it out soon enough."_

_Stiles steels himself for whatever's to come._

**XXX**

Chris Argent is standing next to Stiles, who's looking like he's considering running away. The Sheriff is there, trying not to make direct eye contact with Stiles, but Scott knows he's two seconds away from leaping out of his skin. Scott could feel the buzzing. He knew that his pack was a little unconventional, but what he wasn't prepared for was the bonds that were created by the countless humans. Sure, Stiles was always pack, but he hadn't expected to feel the Sheriff, Chris Argent, and his mom. Those were always a surprise.

Chris takes a few steps around Stiles, who's still finding the ceiling incredibly interesting. "So… Stuart," he says, walking over to Stiles, who, after some effort, finally looks at him. Scott can actually smell his discomfort. "I'm gonna show you a picture and you're going to tell me if this is the woman living next to you, okay?"

Stiles frowns. "Great," he sighs.

Chris looks puzzled. "What?"

"I'm living next to a fugitive, right? Or a convicted felon? Don't landlord do background checks on their tenants?" Stiles exclaims, huffing in frustration.

The Sheriff tries to (unsuccessfully) hide a snort. Stiles isn't wrong.

Chris gives Stiles a sad smile, like he's thinking of all the times that Stiles somehow unwittingly sassed his way to guessing what's going on, but his face smoothes. He flips the picture around and Stiles sighs. That's enough of an indication, but he includes, "Yup, that's my crazy neighbor who basically blackmailed me into having questionable tea with her and has been leaving weird flowers at my doorstep."

The Sheriff perks up at that one. "Weird flowers?"

Stiles nods, reaching for his backpack and rummaging around inside for a bit. "Well, more specifically, wolfsbane. But not a usual strain." Stiles pulls out a few papers and a dried, purple flower that's paper clipped to the sheet. Scott takes an instinctually step away from it, resisting the pull he feels from the flower. He shuffles through the paper. "It's weird because there was a lot of stuff about legends, not really scientific things. But I've never seen it used for tea before."

Stiles pauses, his eyes wide. "Dude, was she trying to poison me? What she like, legit trying to kill me? Scotty! Scotty!"

Scott freezes.

_"__Scotty! Scotty!"_

_Scott finds his voice and tugs against the electric collars on his wrists. "Stiles!" He gasps, trying to focus every ounce of strength within him in breaking free._

_"__Scotty! Don't let my dad—"_

_The door slams behind them, leaving the teens by themselves._

_There's no more noise._

Someone hits Scott, pulling him out of his reverie. Scott blinks, startled by his bespectacled best friend, who has that look on his face like he's about to smack him – one he used to get on a daily basis. "I told you! I freaking _told_ you, Scotty, that she was a crazy psycho bitch. But did you listen? Did you listen, Scott? No! Because _no one ever listens to Stiles!"_

Stiles stops, his eyes widening.

It's like someone took all the oxygen out of the room.

Stiles blinks a few times, his eyes watering as he tries to ignore every person in the area. "I-I don't know why I said that," he mutters, putting his hands around his chest and stepping away from everyone.

Claudia steps up, whimpering slightly. Scott's eyes widen, but he can hear Stiles' heartbeat and it's nowhere near panic-level. She places her nose against Stiles palm and he leaps a little, pulling his glasses off and turning around.

Everyone pretends not to notice him wiping his eyes.

"Listen, it's not safe for him to be staying in that complex by himself," Chris says, the picture in his hand shaking as he does so. "So I have a feeling we only have two options. One, we can call social services and ask Stuart to be relocated to another city or family—"

"Who the fuck are you?" Stiles shouts, whirling around.

_That's_ when his heart beat spikes up.

Claudia takes a few steps in front of him, a small growl sounding in the room. For a moment, she doesn't look like the sweet dog that had been following Stiles around. Her eyes darkened and she places herself between Argent and Stiles, as menacing as a dog can look. Stiles doesn't seem to notice. "I've already got social services breathing down my fucking neck, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't but in where you don't belong!"

"Or," Chris continues over Stiles, only like someone who's had Stiles yell at them before could. "We could go with the second option, which I genuinely would believe is the safest, and put him in the protective custody of the Sheriff's department."

The room quiets again. The Sheriff whips his head in the direction of Chris, who looks like he's about to pay his way for a VIP pass into the Chris Argent Fan Club. Scott, however, winces. Because if the Sheriff and Stiles are in the same area, he doesn't know what's going to happen.

But it _would_ be the safest. Someone would be with Stiles all the time and that particular someone would have access to an entire police force and a shitton of guns.

"Well, obviously he can't continue to be where he is," the Sheriff clears his throat, smothering the heaps of excitement that is rolling off of him. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but the Sheriff holds up a hand. "We went to the apartment once Scott told us who he thought your neighbor was. It looks like someone may have figured out that you identified her."

"Who is she?" Stiles asks carefully.

Everyone exchanges an unsubtle look. Stiles opens his mouth to yell when he clearly thinks the two seconds he's allotted them to explain is too much. "She's a convicted murderer," the Sheriff says before he can get too indignant. He leaves out, of course, how she actually was supposed to be dead and they didn't realize that she actually wasn't and probably is some sort of Martian creature because she's all kinds of fucked up. "She was responsible for a fire a while that left a lot of people dead."

"The Hale fire?" Stiles asks, running back over to his backpack and pulling out a mess of more papers. People jump back as they fall everywhere, but Stiles doesn't seem to notice as he rummages around, looking for something. He pulls a few papers up, frowning. "Kate Argent… Hale." He frowns, his eyes distant in that way that Stiles gets when he's piecing things together that no one else paid any attention.

"Holy fucking shit!" Stiles exclaims, his eyes wide.

"Good God, kid, _language._" Sheriff Stilinski groans, but in an endearing way that clearly says 'Never stop acting like Stiles' and 'I'm so glad you're going to be living with me.'

"Sorry," Stiles says sheepishly.

The two Stilinskis rub the back of their necks at the same time, catch each other's eyes, and then cough awkwardly.

Stiles wastes no time recovering, though. "Scott, remember, I was saying that there was a connection between Derek Hale's house and Chris… Chris…" Stiles groans. "Freaking Argent. Of course, it's Chris Argent."

"What about my house?" Chris says, surprised.

"You're an Argent too?" Stiles exclaims. "Congrats on your psycho sister, bro. Anyways, _as I was saying_, maybe Kate is trying to finish off Derek or something? I can't imagine him working with someone who burned his family alive." Stiles says tapping his fingers against his lips. "Wait, _you're_ an Argent and it was connected to your house. You're shady as fuck, too. Are you in this?"

The Sheriff snorts again.

"God, you can't just ask people if they're murderers, kid," the Sheriff rolls his eyes.

"He's not saying no!" Stiles yells, gesturing wildly.

"I'm not a working with my sister," Chris says, as if he's annoyed that he even has to make this clear.

"Convincing." Stiles deadpans.

"Why would the Hales and the Argents be connected again, though." Scott asks, because he knows they need to get back on topic.

Stiles shrugs. "Hell if I know. Are there any other Hales still alive and possibly living with Derek? Who kinda scares me?"

Scott laughs.

"What? He literally appeared out of nowhere when I was on a run!" Stiles exclaims. "He has creeper down to a science, let me tell you."

Scott opens his mouth to make a retort, but stops. "Peter." He says quietly. "Peter Hale."

Chris Argent closes his eyes. "Peter Hale."

Stiles sighs. "Oh yes, infamous Peter Hale," he groans, throwing his hands up in the air. "Seriously, someone's gotta start giving me some information or I swear to God, I'm gonna—"

Then he stops.

Scott peers at Stiles curiously, who is staring at Chris Argent. Chris looks uncomfortable under the intense gaze, but then Scott realizes that he's not looking _at_ Chris. He's looking at his waist.

Um… okay.

Stiles takes a tentative few steps over to him, a quaking hand reaching out. Chris looks at Scott – a face that says something like 'what the actual fuck is your friend doing' – to which all Scott can do is respond with a shrug. But then Stiles reaches for the hem of his coat and pushes it aside, Chris tenses. Stiles reaches and pulls a metal rod.

Scott didn't even realize it was there. Chris was always weaponized like he thought he would be attacked at any second (which, to be honest, was probably fairly accurate). But Stiles holds the device in his hands, his fingers running up the smooth metal.

Then, his eyes widen and _blaze_.

In hindsight, if Scott was expecting anything, it wasn't this.

Stiles eyes grow distant and then blaze a brilliant silver. All the warm hazel disappears and they burn, his entire figure stiffening. "How _could you_!" He shouts, his fingers curling around the metal rod. The metal starts to bend, curling like taffy in his hand.

The Sheriff runs over to Stiles, who is visibly trembling everywhere. Claudia is barking, but it's not like the time in class, but at Chris Argent. The Sheriff grabs Stiles' wrists and shoves him roughly against the wall, prying his hands open until the metal rod drops. Once Stiles' back slams against the wall, his eyes flicker, slowly coming back to normal. He looks at his dad, now the only thing in his eyes tears, distant and hurting.

Chris stares. "I-I don't—"

Scott places his hand on Chris' arm. "I don't think it's you."

Scott's fists clench. "Hunters."

**XXX**

The Sheriff thought that having Stiles back in the house would be a dream, but he didn't figure how awkward he'd feel.

After they got Stiles to calm down a bit, Chris Argent discreetly trying to hide whatever other weapons he had stuck in his waist. Stiles, of course, thought he blacked out and didn't remember anything (the fact that this was so common and easily believable to him made the Sheriff's chest ache). But he couldn't forget the way that his eyes shone silver.

What did the hunters do to him?

Truth is, the Sheriff really doesn't care. He doesn't care if his son isn't a human any longer. Human, werewolf, kitsunes, banshees, whatever. He doesn't care. All he cares about is that his son is under his roof and for that, he's eternally grateful.

The Sheriff and Scott pulled Chris aside, asking what the metal object was, to which he looked increasingly uncomfortable.

_"__It draws out power. It's an incredibly painful experience. To someone who's entirely human, it'll just feel like a burn. But to anyone with anything… well, _anything_else, it'll be an excruciating pain."_

_Scott frowns. "So that Nogtisune survivor thing that Stiles was talking about when he was taken – that was real? That was a real thing for him?"_

_Chris frowns. "I'm still not sure. I was doing some research when you came back, but after a while…"_

_'__There was no point when he never came back.' Is left unsaid._

_"__A while ago, Deaton was mentioning something about Stiles. About how he had something called a 'Spark.'" Chris says. _

_The Sheriff frowns. "So, my son's… naturally supernatural?"_

_"__I don't think so – I think it's more of a potential thing," Chris says. "He has the potential to be, if he harnesses those natural abilities. They've shown themselves in the past, in small ways. But, if someone was using this on him, there is a good possibility they were trying to awaken that Spark and tear it from him."_

_"__Tear it from him?" Scott repeats, aghast. "What does that even mean? What would that do?"_

_"__My knowledge on Sparks is incredibly limited because they're more of a dying breed because of the threat that they possess for everyone in their wake. Every pack needs an emissary," Chris says to Scott. "But a pack who's emissary has a Spark? Much, much more dangerous. Because if the Spark knows how to harness that power and can control it, not only does it make decisions and actions that can take down the supernatural, it makes their Alpha stronger by default. I'd have to consult the Bestiary for more information because I've never come across one before. Gerard mentioned knowing one, but I'm fairly certain he killed them."_

_Scott gulps._

_"__So, let me get this straight," the Sheriff says, annoyed at how much of that monologue he doesn't understand. "Whoever bought Stiles," he says that part through gritted teeth because the idea of it is so awful, he can't bring himself to wrap his mind around it. "_knew_that he was a Spark? Which means, whoever bought him, is probably in Beacon Hills."_

_Chris groans, clearly not making that connection. "You Stilinskis are a dangerous bunch," he laughs, but it's not warm. "Now that you mention it, probably. And, to be honest, it probably has connection with the weird deaths that have been happening in the woods. Our main concern is that, regardless, they didn't manage to tear his Spark away because very clearly – it's still there."_

_"__Is that what the silver eyes meant?" Scott asks._

_"__I'm not sure – like I said, I'll have to research this further."_

_The Sheriff, who's been watching this is frustration, uncrosses his arms. "Alright. I have one last question. Well, actually, I have a million questions, but they're gonna wait because I'm going to take my kid home for the first time in over a year." The Sheriff huffs. "What happens when a Spark is separated from it? What is the end result?"_

_Chris hesitates. One final time he says,_

_"__I don't know."_

"So, the guest room's upstairs," the Sheriff says. "It's right next to the bathroom that you can use. Make yourself at home as possible."

Stiles nods, twisting his hands uncomfortably. He moves to go up the stairs, and then stops. "I'm sorry I ran off the other night." He says quietly. "I was freaked out."

The Sheriff smiles warmly at him. "It's fine. I understand."

Stiles looks around the hallway, his eyes falling on a photo. The Sheriff quickly hid any of Stiles that littered his house, but left the one of him and Claudia on their wedding day. It was simple. Small. Perfect.

Stiles looks at the photo and stares.

The Sheriff is taking off his jacket, not necessarily paying attention, but then realizes his son is reaching out to the picture, his hands shaking. He pauses mid-sleeve.

"M-Mom?"

The whisper is so broken and feeble, the Sheriff wouldn't have believe it was actually uttered unless he hadn't seen Stiles wrecked face. "What?" the Sheriff gasps, stepping over.

"I-I know that face," Stiles says, his voice trembling. "I see it in my dreams all the time. I figured it was my mom I couldn't remember."

The Sheriff isn't sure what having your heart _actually_ break feels like, but he's fairly certain this is pretty damn close. His own eyes are filling with tears.

Stiles hesitates, but then turns to face the Sheriff. He wraps his hands around himself, his lower lip is trembling and he looks positively _wrecked_, but he's standing. "A-Are you—" he stops himself, closing his eyes in frustration.

The Sheriff doesn't want to get his hopes up, but he doesn't say anything. He instead, remains poised with his hand over his phone, just in case.

"Are you my dad?"

The Sheriff knows that words can cut a man down. He knows because whenever Claudia said 'I love you,' he thought he was going to pass out. But it was nothing like this.

His son looks so small, so fragile.

The Sheriff isn't sure how to answer, though. Because Melissa's words are pouring in his ears. And if he's asking, that means that Stiles doesn't necessarily _remember_, but just that he's Stiles.

He figured it out.

And he can't lie.

"Yes."

It's one word. One, small, inconsequential word in the grander scheme of things.

But this one small word is making him tear up and it's making Stiles' tears fall. Stiles entire body is shaking and he looks like he's about to collapse on himself.

Ah, screw it.

The Sheriff takes the last few steps over to Stiles and wraps him in the hug that he's been wanted since he pulled away in the Sheriff's station. Except this time, Stiles does pull away. Instead, he puts his head in the Sheriff's chest, his fingers curling around his shirt like he's afraid to let go.

"W-Why can't I remember you?" he pleads, his voice cracking. "Why can't I remember any of you?"

"We don't know," the Sheriff says, holding onto him tighter. "We're trying to figure it out. We didn't mean to freak you out or ambush you, we just wanted you to be safe. To finally be safe."

Stiles makes a noise that shatters the Sheriff's voice further, like it was an answer to prayer. The Sheriff knows. He knows that 'being safe' was probably whispered at night to a God that he knows Stiles doesn't believe in. That he isn't sure he believes in. But he gets to hold onto his son, so for that, he's thankful.

"And it's not entirely true. You haven't forgotten everyone.

"You remembered your mother."

**A/N: DROWNING IN A POOL OF FEELS KTHXBYE. OF COURSE HE REMEMBERS HIS MOM.**

**When I started writing this, did I think that I was gonna have Stiles realize he's Stiles this chapter? NO. But, then I thought about it. He can still lose his memories, but figure it out. And I realized that Stiles would. He WOULD figure it out by now, even without his memory. Because it's Stiles and that's what he does. He figures it out. So, does he remember? No. Did he figure out that he was Stiles based on all of the signs? Yes.**

**I've always been a fan of spark!Stiles and emissary!Stiles, and I don't know why that plot was dropped. So I'm adding it to my own plots. SO THERE JEFF DAVIS.**

**Please leave a note if you have the time! Much love!**


	10. Chapter 9: Pack

**Hey! Sorry for such a late update. I'm back in school and it's going to be taking up an exponential amount of my time, but I'll try and be as update-y as possible. **

**I'm glad you guys like spark!Stiles as much as I do! Some of my favorite fics deal with spark!Stiles and there's just so much that could be done with that arc – and it allows Stiles to remain human, which would be awesome.**

**Anywho! This chapter will probably be full of feels. ALL OF THEM BECAUSE I LOVE THESE CHARACTERS, OKAY.**

Chapter 10

_Pack_

So… werewolves are a thing.

It should surprise Stiles more than it actually does. It explains Derek Hale, at least.

Neither of the Stilinskis got any sleep that night, their conversations heading deep into the darkness of the night. A few times the Sheriff tried to get Stiles to open up about his foster experience, but he held onto those words firmly. If he was to be believe – if he really _was_ this Stiles kid that everyone seems so distraught over – then he knows better than to burden his own father with the knowledge of his foster experience.

So instead, the Sheriff goes into this long-winded spiel about werewolves, which seemed so ridiculous at the time, but not so much anymore.

"Technically, I'm not supposed to tell you any of this," the Sheriff says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. Stiles noticed he did that whenever he was nervous – a trait Stiles shares. "They're concerned for a break in your reality, similar to what happened in the classroom with the riddles."

Stiles froze at that information for a moment. "Does Stiles – I mean, me…? Oh fuck," Stiles breathes, closing his eyes. "This is a lot to take in, sorry."

"That's alright, son."

"Was there an incident with riddles?"

The Sheriff's jaw clenches and Stiles can actually feel the tension rolling off of him. "Yes," he mutters quietly. "You don't talk about it often. Actually – almost not at all. We never really knew what fully happened, but it was horrible."

"I'm sorry you all had to go through that."

Stiles knows it's not the right thing to say, but he says it anyways. He's having trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that he may be this lost… son, or whatever. He can't bring himself to use 'we' or 'I' or whatever he _should_ be using, because there's a small part of him that doesn't quite believe it. Okay, a big part.

Huge.

Stiles sighs, wishing he was old enough to have a drink. Maybe that would make this all easier to handle. "Listen," Stiles says, watching as the sky lightens. It's really beautiful when the sky wakes up and he feels a little better about everything. "I need to take Claudia on a walk before school."

The Sheriff straightens, his face going alarmingly blank. Stiles frowns, unsure of what he did to cause such a formal change, but then it strikes him. "I'd like it if you came along," Stiles says hastily, unable to shake the haunting feeling in his gut when this man (his father?) went so cold. "Of course, you don't have to, but I—"

"Yes."

The words are quick and firm, removing any time for Stiles to work himself in a panic over it. So instead, he grins, grabbing Claudia's leash from the hallway and leading the happy dog out the door. As soon as the fresh air hits Stiles' face, his eyes start to water. He can't help it. He blames it on the sting of the fresh morning, but it's really overwhelming – everything he's learned.

"You okay, son?"

Theoretically, Stiles knows that's a common phrase. People call teens 'son' all the time – especially cops. But when the Sheriff says it, it absolutely _destroys_ him. He clutches Claudia's leash a little tighter and the dog flinches at the tension, drawing back. Stiles continues to walk, but refuses to look at the Sheriff. Luckily, the man doesn't pressure him to continue on, but just waits.

"It's just," Stiles wipes his eyes, focusing on Claudia, who's now fallen in line with him. "I know you guys really want this Stiles' kid back and while all the evidence points that we're the same person – and sure, it all makes _logical_ sense – but apparently we live in a world where werewolves are a thing. So logic doesn't really need to apply here."

"Listen," The Sheriff says quality. "I know you're a smart kid. And I'm not going to make you uncomfortable, or at least try not to. But don't you think it's peculiar that everything that could help you figure out who you are – your past, parents, friends – mysteriously vanished with that car crash? That you chose Beacon Hills out of any place to live? That you named your dog after my wife – your mother?"

"Like I said," Stiles huffs. "_Logically_, everything supports it. I mean, I'm not stupid. But… let's say we figure all of this out. Let's say that we get my memories back and it turns out my name _is_ Stuart. I _am_ some stupid foster kid who lost his family in a car crash and happened upon Beacon Hills. Do you know what that would do to _me?_"

The Sheriff remains quiet.

"Because for you guys? Yeah, it would suck, don't get me wrong. To think you have your son back and Scott has his best friend and Lydia has that guy she was in love with or whatever. But you'd be _fine_. You'd have each other and you'd make it work. You guys have this super awesome support system and you'd continue on. But me?

"Me? I don't have that support system. I've been alone since I can remember. And now suddenly I'm thrust into every foster kid's _dream_ that they actually have a place where they belong and a family who loves them. But something just happened that made him forget, but he really has a family. For me? If this all turns out to not be true? I'd be _devastated_. Absolutely devastated. And I know myself well enough to know that I would not recover from that. So I can't bring myself to instantly accept everything because if this goes wrong, I'll be all on my own. Again."

The Sheriff doesn't respond right away. Stiles can tell that he's coming up with the best way to phrase whatever it is he has to say, but keeps opening his mouth without any response.

"No."

That's it. That's what Stiles gets. A part of him is even a little upset over it. Actually, he opens his mouth to argue, but the Sheriff puts his hand up.

"You heard me right. No. Absolutely not. I reject that." The Sheriff states. "Regardless of the fact that I have insurmountable proof that you are, in fact, my son, even if there was some horrible twist in fate, we would not leave you. We would not just ship you back off into social services and forget about you. We would never do that." The Sheriff claps a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "We've got your back now, kid. You have to get used to that."

Stiles looks at the sky so he doesn't show the Sheriff that he's now officially crying. But it's a thing that's happening. He can't really stop it.

"I want to trust you," Stiles says softly. "It scares me how much I want to trust you – how much I already trust. I don't _know_ you."

The Sheriff lets out a noise that Sheriff knows is intense hurt. But he doesn't know what to do. "I don't know anything but being alone," he mutters. "That's why I got Claudia." It doesn't go unnoticed that the Sheriff flinches. "I spent the past two years trying to calm myself down from panic attacks and figure out where I belong. I'm not good at either of those. I-I used to just wait for them to be over. But you stopped mine. Y-You—" Stiles choked. "You stopped it. Besides Claudia, you're the first person to be there for me. I don't know what to do with that."

The Sheriff hesitates. Then, he mutters, "Aw, fuck it." And sweeps Stiles into a hug. He clutches him close to his chest, wrapping his arms around Stiles like the time at the station. "I'm sorry, I need this." The Sheriff huffs in his ear. "I know it's selfish, but… but I haven't seen you in over a year. You have a death certificate. I nearly lost my job because they found out I was using company resources to try and find you after you were declared dead. You have a stone next to your mother." The last word comes out as a sob.

"I do?"

"Yeah," the Sheriff chokes. "They said it would help me move on. Help me put you behind me. I didn't want to do it. I didn't think my heart could break more than when I buried my wife. I didn't think that anything could be any worse than that. But then I buried you. I had a stone made that looked like your mother's and I watched as they put it in the ground.

"I-I can't explain—" Sheriff shudders. "Watching that happen is something… there isn't a word for to explain. I haven't been back there since. I can't bring myself to think about being the last one. It's… it's too much."

Stiles isn't sure what to do. A part of him wants to get rid of this awkward hug, but another feels like that awful hole that was in his chest is finally closing up. He finds himself clutching the Sheriff tighter.

"So, do you want me to keep calling you Stuart?" The Sheriff asks quietly.

Stiles thinks about it. Because, he's not Stiles. At least, not in his head.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I-I just don't… I mean, it's hard… but—"

"I get it, son, I get it."

Stiles doesn't squeeze tighter when the Sheriff says 'son.' He doesn't.

**XXX**

Scott finds himself outside Derek's loft, his hands a little shaky. He feels like he should be more independent, but he can't bring himself to be so. He knocks a few times, revealing a good-humored Derek on the other side. "Surprised that you waited a whole fourteen hours to come and visit me. Come on in." He holds the door open and Scott stomps in.

"What is Peter doing?" Scott asks.

Derek makes a face. "Wow, you really don't mess around. There wasn't even a cursory 'how's your life'?"

Scott sighs. "I'm sorry, I have a lot on my mind."

"I'm kidding, Scott." Derek laughs, clapping his hand on Scott's shoulder. "Let's talk, let's figure it out."

Scott looks at him, wondering if he's being serious. But then Derek does that thing with his eyebrows and so Scott sighs. "When did you last speak with Peter?"

"Last week."

"Did you—"

"Did I ask if he kidnapped your best friend and tortured him to the point of amnesia? No I did not."

"Dude, this isn't a joke!" Scott shouts and he can feel his eyes burn red, so he blinks a few times to calm himself down. Derek sighs.

"I know, Scott. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make light of the situation." Derek says calmly. "But think of this rationally. Peter has been among us this entire time. Do you really think that the two of us – a born werewolf and True Alpha – would not be able to realize that he took Stiles? Really?"

Scott growls. "I _know_, but dude—"

"Don't call me dude, Scott, how many times do I have to _say_ this, God!"

"—there has been connectivity between your place and the Argents and—"

"That's because _I've_ been contacting Chris Argent." Derek sighs. "I know that losing his daughter must've been difficult. And I know what it's like to lose all your family. I thought he might appreciate knowing that I was here for him, if he wanted. We've been emailing because some things you just can't say to someone's face. Particularly someone who you used to hunt."

Scott falters. "It was you? You were using the Internet?"

"Good God, I'm not a Martian. I know how to use the Internet."

"Whatever. You've been contacting Argent? Why didn't you say anything?"

"You didn't say anything until that moment." Derek says. "If you kept me in the loop better, I'd be able to answer these questions. I'm sorry."

Scott closes his eyes. "Sorry, I just… this means that it was someone else."

Derek nods. "You were hoping it was Kate and Peter."

Scott looks at his feet. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No," Derek says. "It means that you're human."

Scott looks at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"Scott, evil isn't limited to Beacon Hills." Derek says quietly. "It's not something that disappears when you go outside the city limits. Sure, we've had our fair share of evil, but it's just a small percentage of what exists in the world. We live in a world where people burn families to the ground and friends disappear for years at a time. But that's just one ring of evil. There's certain to be more that exists. And while it might be easier if Kate and Peter were behind it, but don't go looking for evil where it doesn't exist."

Scott doesn't have an answer to that.

Derek claps a hand on his shoulder. "Scott, you're a good Alpha. Stiles disappearing was not your fault. And it does not reflect your skills as an Alpha. It was an unfortunate incident that happened. Bad things happen and sometimes it's no one's fault. Bad things happen in the world. Sometimes we can't stop it."

"But we _have_ to." Scott insists. "Because if we can't stop it, what's the point?"

Derek opens his mouth to argue, but Scott's pocket buzzes. He pulls his phone out and freezes. "Oh God,"

"What now?"

"Stiles figured it out. The Sheriff just texted me. He doesn't remember, but he put all the signs together that he's Stiles. They're on a walk right now, talking."

Derek snorts.

"What?"

Derek shrugs. "I'm just not surprised. Did anyone actually think that he wouldn't figure it out?"

Scott can't help but chuckle. "I'm gonna go and try and talk with them on the walk. You wanna come?"

Derek shakes his head. "No thank you."

"Dude," Scott says.

"_Don't_ call me—"

"You're avoiding him." Scott states.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I ran into him at the forest. That's not avoiding him."

"You don't talk at meetings. You've avoided him when we're all together. What's up?" Scott asks.

"What am I supposed to say, Scott?" Derek asks. "He was taken because you guys were in Mexico, trying to find _me._ It's my fault. If you weren't in Mexico, this never would've happened."

"You were just giving me a lecture about how it wasn't my fault. Derek, this is _so_ not your fault."

"You were in Mexico."

"Stiles is not your fault." Scott says firmly.

"He's not yours."

**XXX**

Stiles and the Sheriff continue down the road in an uncomfortable silence. The Sheriff knows that he should've been more sensitive. But he couldn't help it. His son figured it out and he's back.

But not really.

The Sheriff isn't sure which is worst to be honest.

A rumbling starts from the woods. Claudia's ears flatten, a growl rumbling in the back of her throat. Stiles frowns. "What's up, buddy? You okay?"

Claudia starts barking, her eyes growing fierce in a way the Sheriff never saw before. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"I don't know, she's never acted like this before—" Stiles says.

Then, Claudia bolts from the two, ripping the leash out of Stiles' hand. "Wait!" Stiles shouts. "Wait, Claudia – no!"

Stiles sprints off, the Sheriff's eyes widening. "Stiles!" He shouts after him, his heart racing. "Stiles – Stuart – no, don't go into the forest! It's not safe!"

"Claudia!" Stiles shouts, sprinting further, not heeding anything the Sheriff says.

"Stiles, please!" the Sheriff bellows, a panic racing through him.

He hasn't felt like this in a while. Because this couldn't happen. He just got his son back. He isn't going to lose his son in this goddamn forest. It's _not_ happening.

"Stiles!"

"Oh my God," the Sheriff hears Stiles breathe, pressing him to race further. Maybe he should've taken Stiles seriously about the whole arteries thing.

The Sheriff bursts into a clearing in the forest, drawing his gun as soon as he does so. "Stiles!"

But he doesn't know what to do.

In the middle of the clearing is a beast. There's no other way to describe it. There's an animal at the base of the tree line, his face pulled back in a snarl. The paws reach out, clawing at Claudia's leg. "Stop, please!" Stiles cries, taking a step forward.

"Stop!" The Sheriff shouts. "Please, Stiles, just stop!"

But Stiles doesn't listen. He moves closer to the animal. "Please," he begs.

The animal growls, his eyes flashing a deep red. Stiles stutters backwards. It leaves Claudia on the ground, a pool of red seeping in the ground around her hind legs. It steps over her, the growls increasing as it makes it closer to Stiles.

"Step back!" Sheriff shouts, unable to find a good shot with Stiles so close. "Stiles – shit – Stuart, step back! Get back here!"

But his eyes are wide and he's tripping over his feet. The Sheriff uses the opportunity of Stiles on the ground to raise his gun once more. He fires a few times, but the beast doesn't even falter. He moves closer to Stiles, his teeth bared.

"NO!"

Just before the Sheriff can reach him, something else bounds out of the woods, tackling the monster. Stiles lets out a holler, frozen as the two wrestle on the ground. The beast lets out a whimper and as soon as it's free of the grip of the intruder, it bounds off.

"Are you guys alright?"

The Sheriff keeps his gun poised until he notices the second person shifting a bit. "Scott," the Sheriff breathes. "Thank God."

Scott is back to normal when the Sheriff reaches him. "What happened?"

The Sheriff offers Stiles a hand, but he doesn't take it. "Claudia!" Stiles shouts, scrambling to his feet. "Claudia, oh my God!"

He runs over, placing his thin fingers over her wound. Blood seeps through his fingers as he chokes. "Sheriff, Scott! Please!"

The Sheriff watches as Scott jogs over, his face horrified. The Sheriff shakes his head. It doesn't even matter the species. Scott will always be Scott.

"We'll take him to my work – I work part time at the veterinary clinic." Scott says.

"Please say she'll be okay," Stiles says, tears welling in his eyes. "She's all I have.

She's all I have."

**A/N: Sorry so late and a little shorter! I'm so busy right now and I'm trying my best to keep updating. But now the meat! A new monster? Only took 40K. Oh my gosh, this is the SLOWEST burn of all time. Lol.**

**Please leave a note if you have the time! Much Love!**


	11. Chapter 10: All Alone Again

**I'm so sorry! I know it's been AGES since I've updated. School's kicking my ass all up and down the street. But I wanted to take a break and write some, so I thought I'd update this!**

**I hope you enjoy! Let's get started!**

Chapter 11

_All Alone Again_

"Set her on the table," Deaton says, not an inch of sleep in his eyes as he waves Scott into the back room. Scott hurriedly sets Claudia on the table, Stiles hovering behind. Claudia whimpers when he does, and Stiles pushes past Scott with tears in his eyes.

"What is it? Is she gonna be okay? What does she need? What can I do? Can I grab you something? Can I—"

"Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says calmly. Stiles flinches at the mistake, but seems too distraught to correct the vet. It appears that Deaton doesn't even realize he did it. That, or he simply didn't care. "I think it'd be best if you stepped outside. I don't require your services anytime soon, so it might be best if you go to the waiting room."

"No, you won't understand," Stiles argues, a few tears skating down his cheeks. "I _need_ her to be okay, you know? I _need_ her to be okay. Because, I don't think you understand—"

"I think I understand—"

"No, I don't think you understand," Stiles speaks over him. "Because I'm sure you get a lot of people saying that their pets are really important and that they can't live without them, but they're not me and it's not the same. I actually cannot live without her." His hands are starting to tremble and Scott looks at the Sheriff, who looks stricken. He seems to be contemplating whether he should reach out and grab Stiles, but still looks unsure of himself.

"You don't understand what it was like before I got her," Stiles says, his voice getting a little high-pitched and cracked. "I had no one. I-I have no one. I can't lose her. I can't be on my own again. I-I can't… I can't…"

The words stop, but only because they're strangled. A squeaking noise replaces them and the Sheriff snaps into action. He grabs Stiles by the wrists and practically drags the two of them out of the room. Scott looks between Claudia and Stiles, frowning, mainly because he's not entirely sure where he could be the most helpful. He's not entirely sure he'll be helpful in either place.

Deaton peers up from the dog, his hands now coated with a layer of her blood. "Why don't you go and make sure Stiles is okay, Scott? I'll be fine here by myself. Let him know that whatever attacked you guys in the forest missed the main arteries and she'll be fine – probably just walk with a limp for the rest of her life."

Scott nods, but isn't sure. He actually wants to leave. It's a weird war within himself. He knows that he'll be in Deaton's way, but also probably in the Sheriff's way as well. Scott doesn't like feeling not needing. Unhelpful. But he steels himself and leaves the vet's back room, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling of uselessness in his stomach.

But then he sees a sight that almost makes him cry himself.

Stiles is wrapped in the Sheriff's lap, sobs erupting from his chest violently as the Sheriff tries to keep the panicking teen in his grasp. Stiles isn't even making sense anymore; there are just shouts of incoherent phrases and pain… lots of it.

It makes Scott want to disappear a little. Because logically, he knew. He knew that if he got Stiles back, he would be broken. He wouldn't be the same person who drove all of them to La Iglesias that day. How could he? Scott isn't even sure what happened in those five months between waking up in the hospital and when he was taken. But watching his best friend completely broken, scratching at his father's arms as he tries to escape his grasp is not something that he could've prepared for.

His sobs don't die out. Scott looks at the Sheriff, who catches his gaze. The Sheriff's eyes are filled with tears and they're pleading. For what, Scott isn't sure. He sure as hell doesn't have any answers. He's a seventeen-year-old kid.

Scott moves forward, opening his mouth. Nothing comes out. What could he possibly say?

The sobbing quiets and Stiles goes limp in his father's arms. The Sheriff waits for about another minute. Then he asks, "Is he asleep?"

Scott peeks at his friend, who's eyes are closed. If he wasn't a werewolf, he would've thought that he passed out, but focused on the steady heartbeat. Scott nods.

The Sheriff doesn't shift his position, though. He keeps Stiles locked in his grasp, his head hitting the back wall. "God," he breathes, his eyes swimming with tears. "What are we going to do? What are we going to do?"

Scott collapses in the seat next to him. "I don't know." Scott sighs, peeking at his best friend. He doesn't look peaceful. "I'm sorry I didn't spend more time with you. Before. I didn't check up on you. See you."

Scott is afraid to look at him, but finds it in himself doing it anyway.

The Sheriff turns out to be the one who doesn't look. "I didn't want you to."

"What?"

The Sheriff still doesn't make eye contact. "I didn't want you to check up on me. I didn't even want to see you for the longest time."

Scott isn't sure what to say about that.

"I'm not proud of it, son." The Sheriff says quietly. "I was mad for a really long time and I wasn't sure who to be mad at. I never met the Calaveras, so I had no idea who they were and Stiles was gone, and all I had was this anger that my son was missing because of all the supernatural things. And I was mad."

The Sheriff's tears finally fall and he looks at Scott. "I didn't want to see you because I was afraid I was going to be mad at you. And I didn't want to lose both of my sons."

Scott's eyes widen. He has heard the Sheriff call him 'son' before, but never actually imply that he's his actual son. Scott isn't sure what to do with that information. "I know it was my fault." Scott says softly.

"But it's not," the Sheriff says determinedly. "That's the point. Is it's not your fault, just as much as it was Stiles' fault. You two have a friendship that only comes around every once and a while and not all people get it. Actually, most people don't. And you two would die for each other. And I'm so happy that Stiles has you. And I have you.

"But I don't blame you. And I didn't want to. But I realize now that I missed you too kid. I missed you so much."

The Sheriff reaches across and grabs Scott's hand.

They stay there for a while.

**XXX**

_Deaton's ASAP._

Derek looks at his phone and frowns. He wars with himself for a while, but he knows that he's going to go because Scott asked him to. Even though knows it has to do with Stiles.

He considers what he would have to do to get out of it, but he grabs his stuff. He thinks about Mexico and Kate. Derek wonders if coming back to Beacon Hills caused more trouble than he ever imagined. He never meant to come back here. Since he came back here, he lost both of his sisters, ruined the lives of teenagers, became the Alpha that he was never supposed to be, lost his entire pack, lost his powers as the Alpha, and then was taken by his psychotic ex.

He could've been a really good post man.

Derek thinks about that sometimes. If he wasn't a werewolf, about the amazingly dull life he would live. There wouldn't be guns or evil creatures. He would find himself a nice, quiet girl who didn't like the city. He would make a house and live in it, maybe be brave enough to have a few kids, and live the rest of his being perfect ordinary. Not supernatural.

Ordinary.

Derek sometimes wonders why humans don't understand what is so beautiful about being ordinary. It's the ordinary that makes life better.

Derek puts on his jacket and finds himself driving to Deaton's, even though that may be the last pace he wants to be. Because that's where Stiles is.

And Derek wants to be as far away from Stiles as possible.

He thinks about the gangly teenager and his entire stomach tightens. The teenager who is completely broken because he came back to Beacon Hills. Because he crumbled because of Kate. The one who was ordinary.

Who is no longer ordinary.

Derek hates that he stripped someone of their ordinary.

When he reaches the veterinary clinic, he's the last one there. Stiles is huddled by the table with an animal that smells of drugs and anesthetic, while Scott, the Sheriff, Lydia, Malia, Kira, Liam, and Deaton are pressed against the walls while Stiles whispers to the animal. Derek frowns. "What's going on?"

"We were waiting for you." Lydia says, her voice impatient. "Scott has been just as cryptic as Deaton and it's been pissing me off."

His frown deepens. "Okay, I'm here. Now what?"

Deaton sighs. "It seems that Stiles here has made a decision about everything."

Everyone looks perplexed – even Scott – so Derek sighs. Stiles made this decision without consulting anyone. Great. It's sure to be a winner.

Stiles looks up from his dog, his face neutral and set. That's a bad combination.

"I want to know." Stiles says without giving anyone an opportunity to argue. "Deaton says there's a way for me to remember and I want to know."

Deaton, however, doesn't look as stoic as usual. Actually, he looks nervous. He waits for Stiles to continue, but Derek notices he takes a few steps backwards.

Definitely not good.

"And Deaton says there's a way. A way for me to remember everything." Stiles says.

Scott opens his mouth to ask what Derek's sure is the question on everyone's mind, but the Sheriff beats him to it. "Why the _hell_ did you not suggest this before? Why would you wait until now?"

Deaton hesitates. Deaton _never_ hesitates. "Because I already know what you're going to say. Unfortunately, Stiles isn't aware of why he'd be against this."

"Stuart," Stiles says with a huff. He shakes his head. "If you could… just call me Stuart. I'm not used to it and I don't want you to call me it. Please."

"I'm sorry Stuart," Deaton says calmly. "Now, I need you to be aware that I did not say that this would be a good idea. In fact, I'm not sure it _is_ a good idea."

"It's my idea." Stiles says shortly. "Mine. I want to know what I missed. I can't handle not knowing anymore."

"What. Is. It." The Sheriff snaps.

Deaton closes his eyes and moves out of the way.

"_FUCK NO_."

Derek took a few moments to see what everyone was freaking out, but when he does, a chill runs down his spine.

Tubs are not scary.

At least before.

Derek looks at the tub filled with ice and everyone's eyes widening with fear. The Sheriff's eyes are filled with anger, fear, and panic. "There is no way in hell he's doing that again."

"I'm sorry Deaton, but the Sheriff's right." Scott says, his voice squeaky. He won't take his eyes off Stiles, who is glaring fiercely at them all. "Last time… Last time was…"

"I don't remember last time." Stiles shouts, his eyes blazing. "I don't _remember_ all these things—"

"You are _not_ doing that!" The Sheriff shouts, pointing at the ice-filled tub. "You are _never_ doing anything like that again!"

"You are _not_ my dad!" Stiles shouts.

The room stills.

Derek knows that Stiles regrets it as soon as he shouts it. The Sheriff visibly recoils from his words. The amount of pain in the room is overwhelming, Derek actually wants to leave.

"I-I'm sorry." Stiles says shakily, wincing the effect his words has. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep being in the dark and not remembering things. We were attacked and I don't know why and I should know why and I need to figure it out. I always figure it out.

"I can't not remember anymore. And this shady-ass vet says he can help me remember. And I want to."

"But Stiles!" The Sheriff yells, but closes his eyes when Stiles flinches. "Sorry. Stuart. Last time you did this, bad things happened. And if you _could_ remember, you would be so against this. You would not want to do this ever again. And if you remember and you find out how we got you to remember, you'll be so upset. You will be so upset."

"I don't care." Stiles says. "I don't care. Remind me of this moment if I get mad. Remind me. But I can't do this anymore. I can't not remember. Please don't ask me to."

"Stiles—" The Sheriff started.

"You're not my guardian." Stiles says, his voice hollow. Derek sucks in a breath. With a single sentence, Derek knows that Stiles will win. Because he's clever. And not afraid to play dirty.

Even now.

"You're not my guardian," he repeats. "I am a ward of the state."

"Stiles—" the Sheriff says, his voice in pain.

"I am government property." Stiles says, his eyes tearing up. "I belong to no one. I have had five homes. The closest person in my life is a _dog_. A dog. I have no one. _No one!_" He screams the last sentence.

Derek thinks his heart breaks a little bit.

"I just realized that when Claudia was lying here and I thought she was dying, that if she died, I would be all by myself. And I'm not okay with that. So I'm doing this. Because I am government property."

The Sheriff's tears fall. "You're government property."

Derek feels like they should leave the room because it seems too heartbreaking and intimate of a moment.

"I'm government property."

Which is how Derek finds himself standing against the back wall as Lydia positions Stiles into a freezing tub wordlessly.

It seems as though everyone's holding their breath.

Stiles shakes and he sits down in the tub, his hands gripping the sides. His breath is coming shorter. His lower lip is trembling.

He looks up, his big eyes swimming with tears.

"I'm so sorry, Dad." He says.

Lydia pushes him under.

**XXX**

_Once the pain stops, Stiles is left panting on the table. "Why?" He asks._

_After weeks of disuse, it barely even is audible. But Kate turns. Werejaguar hearing, he supposes. She turns around with a vibrant grin. "Did the wee lamb just make a noise?"_

_Peter chuckles from the corner of the room, sharpening a few things. Stiles wants to hide forever when he hears that noise. "It was only a matter of time." He mutters with a smile._

_Kate walks over to the table and brushes her fingers against his forehead to wipe some blood that is dangerously close to trickling down his eye. "Do you finally have something to say, little lamb?"_

_"__Why?" Stiles repeats, although a part of himself hates himself for giving in. _

_"__Why?" Kate laughs. "Why not?"_

_Stiles winces when she continues to stroke his face. He closes his eyes and tries to go somewhere else._

_"__We've been watching you for a while, Stiles. You've done quite a few remarkable things," Peter says with a smile. "Don't think I haven't been watching. Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I bit you instead of Scott. I definitely never would've lost my Alpha. Because you live in a grey area. A area of questionable morals._

_"__But then again, if I had, we never would've seen what you're truly capable of."_

_"__It's called a Spark, Stiles," Kate says, walking around the examination table. "I know – I've hunted humans with the Spark. My father used to fill my head with stories about how dangerous they were. How they deserved to be eliminated."_

_Stiles is certain that he did. Gerard. _

_Kate brings a knife to his cheek and Stiles is ashamed to flinch under the cold metal. He wants to scream. But there's no point. No one would hear him._

_"__But he thought too small. My father was always very self-serving. Killing all those people was always a means to an end for him." Kate shrugs. "He didn't think big enough. Because Sparks have power. And if he stopped for a moment and thought about it, he'd realize he was missing a monumental opportunity. Although, my father always liked you, Stiles. He always had good taste."_

_Stiles' jaw clenches._

_Peter finally joins the two of them. He waves something in front of his face, but, as usual, Stiles doesn't recognize it. "Do you know what this is, Stiles?"_

_Obviously not, but he's not going to admit it._

_But then Peter plunges it into his thigh and Stiles lets out a scream that he knows if Scott was in at least a ten mile radius, he would hear. _

_But Scott wasn't in a ten mile radius._

_His shrieks dim, but the pain stays. He whimpers, but Peter doesn't take it away. "Do you know what this is, Stiles?" Peter asks again._

_Then he twists._

_Stiles screams until he isn't sure there's any more oxygen in the room. He may pass out a bit. But when he returns, they're still there. "Come on now, lamb. It's not time to sleep yet."_

_When Stiles comes to, he's surrounded by blood and it's dripping from the metal table. Whatever Peter had slammed in his leg is gone, but it hasn't stopped bleeding yet. There may be a good chance that he's bleeding out. He just kinda wishes it'd happen quicker because it hurts like a bitch. _

_"__Don't worry, you're not going to die." Peter laughs. "Do you know what this is, Stiles?"_

_"__No!" Stiles almost shouts. He's half-afraid that Peter will stab his other leg if he doesn't answer._

_"__You see, if you were just an ordinary human, all you would get is a horrible wound. But if you are a Spark, this does so much more."_

_Sweat rolls down Stiles' face. _

_"__It creates a block. Are you familiar with how dams work, Stiles?"_

_He doesn't answer. But then, Kate brings her fingers down to his leg and brushes his wound. "Urgh – stop, please!" Stiles cries, tears rolling down his face. "Yes, I know how dams work!"_

_Her finger lifts. _

_"__If you aren't careful, sometimes the dam builds up and breaks. And then destruction is everywhere. It overflows._

_"__What do you think would happen if we blocked you, Stiles? And let you build up until you destroy everything in your wake? Doesn't that sound like fun?"_

_"__No," Stiles chokes. "I'd much rather prefer a good book. O-Or maybe some porn. I'm not picky."_

_They only laugh at him. _

_"__You know, I'd much rather do it my way." Peter says with a grin._

**XXX**

Eight hours later, they check Stiles into the hospital.

A week later, he still hasn't woken up.

**A/N: I'm so sorry it took so long for an update! And I actually found the plot in here somewhere! I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Let me know what you thought if you have the time! Much love!**


	12. Chapter 11: Illumination

**Oh my gosh. I never knew how much I was hurting you all by not updating! You are all so sweet and I feel so warm that you all are so passionate about this story!**

**So, I definitely wasn't going to update this quick, but there was so much love, I had to. Plus, I'm rendering today, so I'll have a few minutes here and there, waiting for things to render! So, let's see what we can get through!**

**This is a little short because this is sort of a thank you for your nice response from the last chapter. Just a little conclusion from the cliffhanger of the last chapter!**

**Let's get started!**

Chapter 11

_Illumination_

His head is full. He tries to lift it up, but it feels like there someone holding it down. That's rude. Don't they know that he's had enough of laying on metal tables to last him a lifetime?

There are things restraining him.

Then, he _panics_.

He thought that he escaped. He swear that happened. He swear that he broke his thumbs trying to get out of the cuffs and ran. Ran and ran and ran and ran.

Because he wasn't good at much. He didn't have super powers, he couldn't heal except at a painfully slow pace, he couldn't sense death. But he could run. He could run and run and run.

He takes the things that are holding him down – the wires and cables and anything else that Peter and Kate forced him down into – and rips them aside, not even pausing to marvel at how incredibly easy it was. They never made it for him.

And then he does what he does best. What has saved his life countless times.

He runs.

**XXX**

The Sheriff runs his hands down his face. He feels a little out of place in his civilian clothes. He knew that it made sense for the station to put him on a leave of absence, but he isn't sure how he feels about wandering around the hospital without this gun and badge. Instead, he's in a polo shirt that Melissa insisted on buying him from the hospital gift shop when he refused to go home.

It'd been over a week. A week since the tub. He knew it was a bad idea – nothing good ever came out of asking that ridiculously vague vet for help – but he didn't actually realize that this would happen.

When Stiles remained still in the tub, no one knew what to do. They waited. Scott argued that it took them sixteen hours the last time. It took sixteen hours for them to come out last time. The Sheriff wasn't going to wait sixteen hours to find that his son had died.

So they warmed him up, got his heart slowly sputtering back to life, but that was it. Stiles never opened his eyes. He never moved. They transferred him to the hospital on a Tuesday. It's now Tuesday again.

To be honest, he feels like throttling someone. And when a woman in a crisp suit and a pinched expression on his face walks up to Melissa with a disapproving look on her face, he thinks he might have a chance at doing so.

Because of tests, no one's allowed in Stiles' room. So the Sheriff wanders close to Melissa, listening in for a lack of anything better to do. "—need his medical records so we can file a report," the woman is saying.

"Report?" Melissa asks innocently, but the Sheriff knows that expression. There is no innocence, but… anger?

"We are taking Stuart Smith out of the program he is in immediately. Clearly – two hospital visits within one month shows that he is not capable of being on his own. We just need to make a note of his condition and as soon as he is able, we're transferring back into foster care for the remainder of the year, before he turns eighteen."

"Like hell you are!" The Sheriff shouts, making the woman jump and Melissa to roll her eyes. "You are not taking him away from this town."

The woman arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And you are?"

"I'm the Sheriff of Beacon Hills." He says stoically, trying not to let his anger get the best of him.

She looks him up and down, appraising him. "The same Sheriff who nearly lost his job because of all the unexplained murders that happen in this town?" She rolls her eyes. "Comforting." She returns her attention to Melissa. "His files, if you will."

Before the Sheriff can tell her _exactly_ what she could do with her attitude, but Melissa beats her to it. "Actually, those are private. I can get the family to release them to you with proper avenues."

"Family?"

"That would be me," the Sheriff growls, pushing his way into the conversation again. "And I'm gonna have to say no."

She frowns at the two of them. "I'm not sure I understand."

"You know, that's funny. Because I'm not sure I understand either." The Sheriff huffs, his anger rebuilding once more. "I'm not sure how I understand how a kid who has been listed as 'missing' for over a year can be in the foster system for over five months and not be connected back to his family."

The woman's frown deepens. "I beg your pardon?"

Melissa coughs, drawing her attention back to her before the Sheriff does anything that she knows he'll regret later. "Stuart Smith is actually Stiles Stilinski, son of the man before you. Here are his dental records, matching the two. I believe that Stiles is _not, _in fact, a ward of the state. But a very confused and traumatized seventeen-year-old who has been missing from this town for over a year now."

The woman peers at the dental records, her eyes still untrusting. "Why weren't we notified earlier?"

The Sheriff grits his teeth, reminding himself that cursing at her would probably get him in more trouble. "Why wasn't his information cross-referenced across the missing kids database? There is a database for a reason! So that missing kids can actually find their families – crazy thought."

"Are you aware of how many children are wards of the state, Mr. Stilinski?"

"_Sheriff_ Stilinski, if you would ma'am." He snaps.

"We are in charge of more children than you can imagine. There are bound to be a few that slip through."

"No," the Sheriff snaps, his resolve to be professional and cool breaking. "No, that's not acceptable. These are _children_. They are people with families and homes and people looking for them. When it has to deal with people – real, live human beings – it's important to make sure that they're okay."

She glowers at him. "This is really rich coming from the sheriff of the town who is single-handedly easing population control." She responds coldly. She returns to Melissa. "Send me the dental records so I can confirm."

As she leaves, the Sheriff feels himself itching to hit something again. "Are you okay?" he hears Melissa say from behind the nurse's table.

"I'm good. I'm just reminding myself that it wouldn't be good to hit a woman."

Melissa lifts her eyebrows. "That's probably a good decision." She puts her hand on his and the Sheriff tries to ignore how much this small gesture calms him down and warms his toes. "His tests should be completed and so you can go back to his room, if you like."

The Sheriff runs his hand down his face and nods. "Yes, I would like that very much."

Melissa gives him a warm smile. "Think of it this way. The whole custody thing – what to do about Stiles and the foster system is almost over. You probably just have to sign some forms and that's behind you."

"Yeah, I suppose," he sighs. "I kinda want to shoot them all, though. Does that make me a bad person?"

"No, that makes you a Dad." She laughs good-naturedly. "Hey, I just wanted to say," she says, pulling him aside. "Scott told me what you two spoke about. About missing him. And I wanted to say thank you. He needs to know at least someone is looking out for him. And I'm glad that it's you."

"You know I love that kid like he's my own," the Sheriff says sheepishly. "And I—"

But he freezes.

"What?" Melissa asks.

She turns to where his attention is and puts her hand over her mouth.

All that's in Stiles' room is a bed thrown sheets, pulled wires, and the horrible absence of a certain teen.

**XXX**

Deputy Parrish sits at his desk, filling out a few sheets of paperwork he'd been ignoring. He grumbles a bit, telling himself he shouldn't miss the high activity of Beacon Hills, when everyone is dying and nonsensical mysteries plague the town.

His phone beeps and he picks it up, not bothering to even glance at what it could be. "Sheriff's office, Deputy Parrish speaking." He says distantly, signing his name on something."

"D-Dad? I need to talk to my dad. Is my dad there? Because he isn't here and I need to talk to my dad. Is my dad there?"

"Who is this?" Parrish asks, now fully alert. "Who is your father?"

"This is _Stiles_, this is _Stile Stilinski_, my dad's the sheriff and I'm home and he's _not _home and I need him and I need to – oh _God_—"

"Stiles?" Parrish exclaims, his eyes widening. "Stiles, listen, it's me, Parrish. Do you remember me?"

"Oh course I remember you, you idiot, but I want my dad and he's not _here_."

Parrish can hear Stiles' panic rising and he snaps his fingers at one of the deputies leaning against the wall and ushers him over. "Stiles, listen to me. We're going to get your dad on the phone and he's going to get you. Do you understand that? Where are you?"

"Where do you think I am? I'm _home_. I'm _home_ and he's not here and I haven't been home in forever and I just want my _d-dad_." The last bit comes out as a sob and Parrish writes a message for the deputy to call the Sheriff. "I miss my dad! I want my dad!"

"Your dad is going to come home in a second, any second. We're calling him right now, Stiles. He's going to come home."

"What if he _died_?" Stiles chokes, his cries increasing. "What if he died because I took Scott's place and then he drank and what if—"

"_Stiles!_" Deputy Parrish shouts, not wanting to think of how dead he would be if the Sheriff's kid stroked out before the Sheriff got back to his house. "Just stay on the phone with me until your dad gets—"

The line goes dead.

**XXX**

"There's no one else's scent in the room," Scott insists for the third time. "Just Stiles."

"John, listen to me," Melissa says soothingly. "He probably woke up and panicked. He probably just ran out. We'll find him. This may look bad, but this means he's awake. And he might remember now."

"And what about all the talk about him having a mental breakdown because of the stress of remembering?" The Sheriff bellows, scowling at them all. "Thank you for trying to be optimistic, but all I'm thinking is that is this is a disaster and I want to talk to who's in charge to let a kid who—"

His phone buzzes in his pocket and the lengthy rant that he wants to get off of his chest will have to wait. "Hello?" He snaps.

_"__Sir, it's Parrish. I just received a phone call from your son—"_

"What?" The Sheriff cries. "Stiles? Where is he, is he okay, what's going on?"

_"__He's at your house."_

"Thank you," the Sheriff breathes, all of his bravado filtering out. "Oh God, I have to go. I have to—"

_"__Sheriff, wait. Wait."_

"What?!"

_"__He asked for you. He asked for his Dad. He remembers."_

The Sheriff freezes. "W-What?"

_"__Stiles- he remembers and is asking for you. And, also in the middle of panicking, so you might want to—"_

"Stiles is at the house. I'm leaving now."

That's all the Sheriff gives them before he sprints out.

It's the longest drive of his life, even though he breaks about every traffic law to get there as quick as possible.

He bursts into the house, vaguely aware that a Camaro is right on his heels.

At first he can't hear anything over the pounding in his ears. But once he calms down, his heart no longer threatening to leap from his chest and a group of teenagers leaping out of an ostentatious car, he hears a faint sobbing coming from upstairs.

The Sheriff bolts upstairs, ignoring the other people running into the house. He simply follows the noise.

It comes from his room.

The Sheriff opens the door to find clothes torn all over the floor. He peers around the corner to hear the weeping coming from the closet. He gets on his knees and makes his way over to the closet. He opens the door and his chest tightens.

Stiles is wrapped up in some of his sweaters, tears streaming down his face. "Stiles?" The Sheriff asks tentatively, his hand shaking as he reaches out.

Stiles looks up, his face red and broken and terrifyingly sad. "D-Dad?" He chokes out, a horrible noise of brokenness emitting from his mouth.

And that noise makes the Sheriff fall apart.

The Sheriff grabs Stiles by the shoulders and pulls him into an embrace. Stiles melts into it instantly, grabbing the folds of the Sheriff's shirt. "Daddy?" He says quietly, burying his face in the Sheriff's shoulder. "I thought I killed you. I thought you were gone."

The Sheriff squeezes tighter, vowing never to let his son go at this moment. "I thought you were gone." He chokes out.

"Is this real?" Stiles whimpers. "Are you really here? Did I get out, Dad? Did I really get out?"

"Yes, Stiles, yes," the Sheriff says. "You got out. You got out from there and your safe now. You're safe, Stiles. You're safe."

Stiles grasp seems to envelop him even more. "Please don't let go," he says, his grip now borderline painful. "Because if this is just a dream, I don't want to wake up. Please don't let me wake up. I can't go back there. I can't go back there, Daddy. I can't."

"You're never going back there," the Sheriff says, his voice hard. "Never, Stiles. Never."

It takes a while for Stiles to stop panicking. The only reason the Sheriff lets go is when Melissa comes over and taps his shoulder, a bag in her hands. "Stiles? Sweetie?" She says quietly.

Stiles – who's currently looking dazedly from the lack of contact from his father – stutters, "M-Mrs. McCall?"

"Yes, it's me sweetie, can you calm your breathing for me?" She asks, opening the bag at her side. She pulls out her stethoscope and places it on his chest. "Nice deep breath for me, Stiles. Can you do that?"

It takes a few tries, but he finally calms down. The Sheriff fights the desire to take his son back in his arms. "You're doing great, Stiles, so great." Melissa says gently. "Follow my finger, can you?"

He does, but the tears don't stop.

Once Melissa is certain he's at least physically fine, the Sheriff takes Stiles back in his arms. Stiles allows it. He leans his head against the crook of his father's neck and shuts his eyes. "Maybe we should just leave," Melissa says, nodding to the figures in the doorway. "We can come back another time."

"Wait."

Stiles says, his words stale and cracked.

He looks up, his eyes swollen and red. "Don't go yet. I have to say something."

The Sheriff sighs. "Stiles, you don't need to—"

"No, I need to. Because I have every intention of kicking everyone out and you and I are going to watch movies uncomfortably close on the couch." Stiles says, still breathing a little hard.

He looks up, his eyes meeting Scott and Derek, who are looking like they're torn between leaving the Stilinski's alone and never leaving ever. "It was Peter." He states, his chest heaving. "Peter."

Derek's eyes flash. "Peter did what?"

"He's the one who bought me from the Calaveras. I was going to be sold to a group in the Netherlands, but he came at the last second. And he bought me from the Calaveras."

Derek shakes his head. "No. No, Peter has been with us. He has been here in Beacon Hills. That's not possible."

Stiles is trembling, holding his dad so tightly. "It was Peter. But that's not the crazy thing."

"That's _not_ the crazy thing?" Derek exclaims.

"He's working with Kate." Stiles states. "They're working together."

**A/N: Thank you again! This is a quick little thank you for all your wonderful notes. I figure ending on a cliffhanger was kinda mean after such a long time from updating. I know it's short, but I wanted a resolution for ice bath thing. There will be repercussions planned for the ice bath.**

**Soon – there will be answers to the new monster, the ice bath, the Peter and Kate situation, and some working through things!**

**Thank you again and please leave a note if you have time! Much love!**


	13. Chapter 12: Headache

**Hey! I wasn't planning on updating, but I am having the worst day. Like, really bad. So, I'm taking a little while and writing because writing usually makes me feel better.**

**But thank you for your lovely response to the mini-ish chapter that I posted. Didn't really move the plot along, but I think it was time for Stiles to remember and for shit to get done.**

**Let's get start, shall we?**

**(P.S. Any thoughts about who the monster is? Mwahahah! There's been a very TINY tip earlier, but who knows?)**

Chapter 11

_Headache_

His head hurts.

Stiles sits on the couch, casting a glance at his father, who is shockingly still awake. Ever since he woke up, his head had been buzzing. It was annoying. Then he tried to figure out the last time his head was clear and he realized he couldn't think of it.

He remembered his time as Stuart like it was a dream, or in a tunnel of haziness. But he remembered then he felt like he was buzzing – craving to jump out of his skin. His head hurt a lot then too.

He rubs his temple, wishing the buzzing would just go away. It's really distracting.

"You okay, son?"

Stiles looks over to his dad, whose eyes are crinkling in that worrying way that he's been looking at Stiles like since he woke up. "It's nothing," he murmurs, grinding the heel of his hand in his eyes. "My head's just bothering me."

The Sheriff frowns. "Maybe we should take you back to the hospital. Just get you checked up and make sure that you're alright. That you're healthy."

"Dad, I'm _fine_," Stiles says for what feels like the millionth time. "I just…" he sighs. "I feel all buzzy. I have since I can remember. Even before the tub."

"Come on, Stiles," The Sheriff says. "Please, for me? I need to make sure that you're okay and I wasn't going to make you go tonight, but it'd make me feel better. I can't lose you, Stiles. I just got you back."

Stiles looks at his hands to keep the Sheriff from realizing that there are tears welling in his eyes. It probably doesn't work, but it makes him feel a little better. "I'm not going anywhere, Dad." He says sheepishly, only because it's what you say. At least, he thinks it is. What do you say when you finally see your father for _real_ for the first time after fifteen months? There isn't a handbook for this sort of thing.

"Stiles," his dad says in that soft voice that he knows means that he wants something. Something that Stiles probably wouldn't want to give, but will because it's his dad. And hasn't he maxed out on stuff that he's denied his father at this point in his life? "I know you don't want to talk about it, but when you are ready, I'd like to listen. You've been gone and I – now you're staring at me and I can't help but wonder how I even survived it. Because I see you and I finally… gah!' The Sheriff runs his hand down his face. "I'm not good with this sort of thing. The whole words and talking thing. It was what your mother was good at."

Stiles hesitates. Seeing his father like this goes on the list of things he never wished to see. That list is far longer than he ever wished. It included watching his best friend die, his father get fired because of him, finding Lydia half-dead on a field, and seeing watching Boyd and Allison and Erica get murdered. Damn, that list is long. At this point, can he deny anyone anything?

His lower lip trembles.

"I woke up in the hospital." Stiles starts, his voice cracking slightly.

His dad looks stricken. "Stiles, I didn't mean,"

"No dad, I have to do this. I have to, otherwise I won't. I just…" Stiles calms himself down, but grabs the mug of tea on the coffee table for something to do with his hands. "If I don't do it now, I can't imagine ever doing it."

His father waits a couple minutes until he responds. "Okay, Stiles. Okay."

"I woke up in the hospital," Stiles repeats when he's calm. "I didn't remember anything. I woke up scared and confused. They told me I was in a car accident and that everyone died and that I was on my own. That I lost my leg because of an infection or complications or something, but I remember them just saying that I lost my leg and I was all alone and… I don't remember much after that in the hospital, to be honest. They did tests. I think I had some surgery. Life moved on.

"I felt so alone," Stiles says, his voice cracking. "And then they had the social services come in and tell me that I was officially put in the system because they couldn't find any living relatives and I didn't remember who I really was."

The Sheriff is glaring at that. Stiles can only imagine that he didn't really get 'lost' in the system, but maybe Peter and Kate had something to do with it. Stiles ignored his father because he knew that if he stopped this train of thought, he would never pick it up.

"The first family I had was actually kinda nice. But the whole PTSD, debilitating injury, and massive depression thing made me a delight to have. Not to mention since I was now a stranger to the system, no one knew I had ADHD and everyone thought I was insane. It took three weeks before they gave me back."

"Gave you back," the Sheriff said, his voice murderous. "Like you were an animal. I just can't, I just…"

"The second family, well, they were just in it for the money. It was kinda like subletting an apartment. I was still getting used to my prosthetic and then I was on a lot of medication at the time and I think they were just overwhelmed. I was there two weeks.

"The third family was not great." Stiles gritted his teeth. "They were difficult. They used to… they would taunt me. There was one time that they went so far as to lock my prosthetic up when I was five minutes late home. They said I wouldn't be able to get away when I was incapable of walking."

The Sheriff gripped Stiles' hand tightly. His eyes went a little crazed, but fortunately, he didn't say anything. He just held Stiles' hand. To be honest, if was nice. Really nice, actually. He had his dad here. And he didn't care if it wasn't 'cool' for seventeen-year-olds to cling to their fathers, he's sorta past that point in his life.

"I was with them for one and a half months. I started acting out on purpose until they gave me back. But it wasn't until my fourth family until I got diagnosed with ADHD. They finally put me back on Adderall and I started calming down again, but it mixed weird with my anti-depressants. Kinda messed with my head, made me a little sick. They were a fine family. No big deal, really. I mean, it's not like they really talked but they had four other foster kids in their care. One of them was a total dick. It all comes back to the leg thing. It seems to be the constant cause of ridicule which makes no sense to me because it's not like I could really do anything about it. He ended up beating me up pretty bad. Went back to the hospital. Set my rehab back quite a bit, actually. They decided that I should probably leave the house before it got worse."

Stiles keeps his gaze on the floor. "The last one," his voice breaks and he's tripping over his words again and his father holds his hand tighter and it brings him back to reality. "Was the worst. They were… horrible. I guess I never really understood why Isaac was so troubled with small spaces. I get it now."

"Stiles—" his dad starts. Stiles looks up and he can see that there are tears in his eyes. "Stiles—"

"Dad, no," Stiles says, his gaze returning to the ground. He shakes his head, like he could somehow remove the memory from his mind. If only it was that easy. "You know how that ended. I don't really feel like repeating it."

The two sit in tension for a bit. Mainly because Stiles is afraid. He's afraid all the time. But mainly he's afraid that he's too broken to even function as a regular human being. He's afraid that he makes his father afraid.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Stiles asks, his voice small.

"Of course."

"A part of me wishes that I hadn't woken up. It was so much better when I didn't remember. Now I feel so… lost."

The Sheriff makes a squeak.

"I don't remember everything," Stiles sighs. "It's coming back in pieces. I remember being in a cage and people poking me and making prices and feeling like I wasn't a human anymore but an animal. And then Peter walked in. It's all spotty from there." Stiles steadies his breathing a bit. "I know it was Peter and I know it was Kate and I know they did things – terrible things – but I can't remember. It's like it's a puzzle. I have pieces and I know what the final image is, but that's it. I know they did things. I know they did things and I remember breaking my thumbs so I could get out of the handcuffs. I remember all of that happening and running, but I barely remember anything in between. I know it was terrible and I remember yelling and screaming a lot, but that's it.

"And I think that's a bad thing. I think that's a bad thing that I can't remember everything. I understand repression and wanting to hide everything, but I have this feeling that what happened was important. Something about what happened is important and why my head is buzzing and full and I can't do anything about it. But the worst part?

"The worst part is, I'm not even sure I want to remember. I'm not sure that I want to relive whatever I went through. Because I remember things now but when I was Stuart, it was easier. It was easier to be some random foster kid who nobody knew and could start over. It didn't hurt quite as much. Does that make me selfish?"

"What?" The Sheriff cries, aghast, removing his hands from Stiles.

Stiles only stares at the action, knowing he probably looks personally offended by the action. But his father does nothing to remedy the situation.

"Does it make me a horrible person that I don't want to remember? I'm sure that the knowledge would be wildly helpful, but I don't want to. I don't want to go back into that basement. I feel like for the past five months I've been trapped in that basement without realizing it. I don't want to go back. I don't."

"Stiles," The Sheriff grabs Stiles forearm and shakes him a bit. "Stiles, listen—"

"I'm a terrible person!" Stiles cries out.

"What?"

"I'm a horrible person. I'm sitting here, not wanting to help. I am the worst person in the world."

"Stiles," the Sheriff says firmly. "Stiles, listen to me. Listen to me good. You are _not_ a horrible person. Not even in the slightest. And you never have to apologize for feeling anything regarding what happened. And I need you to know that you are brave. And whenever you feel lost, come and find me. And I will find you. I will keep you grounded. I will make sure you come out of that basement."

Stiles whimpers a little. He pretends he doesn't.

"And don't worry about the basement. You are not a horrible person. We'll figure it out. You don't need to go back in that basement. Sit out the next few innings. Let us sub in. Let us take in the slack. You sit out the next few. You've earned a break, kid."

"I haven't done anything," Stiles chokes, the sob he's been hiding for the entire conversation sneaking through. "I haven't done anything."

"Kid, kid!" The Sheriff said, gripping his forearm painfully. He uses his free hand to tilt Stiles' chin up and forcing him to tear his gaze from the floor. "You've done so much. You done so, so much. And you deserve a break. Please, just let us be here for you. Let us share the burden for a while. Please, Stiles. Just… let us be there."

Stiles blinks a few tears, finally looking his father in the face.

"Okay."

**XXX**

The ride to Derek's is tense and quiet. Scott shoots a few looks over at Derek, who's gripping the wheel of the car extraordinarily tight. Scott opens his mouth a few times, but the words get lost in his throat.

It doesn't even occur to Scott that Derek forgot to drop him off until they reach his loft.

Derek stares at the wheel of his car once it's in park, but he and Scott are still silent. Scott wonders if Derek is actually having an aneurism at the moment, but he finally opens the door without a word. Scott is appalled. After everything - after insisting that Peter was not a problem, he doesn't even acknowledge it?

The more Scott thinks about it, the angrier he gets in regarding the situation. He works himself into a rage and finds himself swinging and throwing the door open.

Derek!" Scott shouts, slamming the door. "Derek, where are you?"

Scott storms through the foyer to the living room, where Derek is standing, dazedly, staring out the window. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Scott shouts.

Derek turns around, gawking at him as though he just realized his presence was there. "Huh?"

"Do you just not care?" Scott bellows. "Do you just not care that for the past fifteen months, Stiles has been in the custody of your psychotic uncle? The one who you promised me was totally fine. You actually used the phrase 'harmless' at one point. Harmless? _Harmless?_"

"What?" Derek asks, still dazed.

"I know Stiles isn't your favorite person, but I thought you cared just a little bit." Scott spits.

"Excuse me?" Derek snaps, his eyes flashing.

"I know that you think Stiles is annoying, but he's _pack_. And you have to realize that his life is important!"

"_Excuse me?"_

"Is that what you have to say for yourself? Excuse me? Well, yeah! Excuse you!" Scott bellows, shoving Derek so he stumbles back. "Excuse you!"

"How dare you!" Derek shouts, bouncing back and getting wildly into Scott's space to the point where the pull against his alpha is strong. Challenged. "How dare you suggest I don't care for someone in the pack!"

"Well, don't you? Because you spent over a _year_ promising that Peter wasn't involved. _Promising_ that he was safe to around. Meanwhile, he had my best friend the entire time! Tortured him! Destroyed him! Do you realize how messed up Stiles is going to be now? Do you know how much help he's going to need?"

"I'm aware, Scott—"

"And now he's here and he's broken and scared and it turns out that Peter has been involved the entire time!" Scott shouts, pushing him again, his eyes flashing red.

Except this time, Derek doesn't just stumble. His eyes flash blue and before Scott can yell anything else, he's tackling him. Scott's head slams against the ground, growls uncurling from his throat before he even realizes what happens. He uses his heels as leverage and pushes Derek off of him. He takes a moment to regain his posture, but his eyes are glowing red once again.

"How dare you!" Scott shouts, charging at him once more. The two collide and the entire room quakes.

"How dare you!" Derek counters. "How dare you accusing me like that? And how was I supposed to know that Peter had Stiles?"

Scott whimpers when Derek catches him right in the ribcage, wincing at the sound of his bones cracking. Without thinking, he swings up, his claws catching Derek's chest. Blood seeps onto his shirt and Scott's claws, dripping onto the floor.

Both collapse, breathing heavily at the exertion. They look at each other – Scott's ribs healing and Derek's skin sewing back together – their eyes slowly transforming back to normal. Neither says anything for a moment.

"Look at us," Scott breathes heavily, shaking his head. "Back where we started."

Derek snorts. "What?"

"Fighting over something that is Peter's fault. Me blaming you. You brooding and forgetting to how to use your words. Peter controlling everything behind the scenes."

Derek's laugh is hollow. "It's scary how easy it is to revert back to how things used to be."

Scott sighs. "I don't want to go back. We've… we've come so far since then."

"I know."

"And for what it's worth, I'm sorry." Scott says, his ribs finally back in their proper place so he can sit upright. Derek follows suit, the blood on his shirt now nothing more than decoration. "I didn't mean to imply you didn't care about the pack."

"I don't find Stiles annoying," Derek grumbles, sitting across from Scott. Scott lifts an eyebrow, causing Derek to sigh. "Well, maybe I do, but not like before. And I would never withhold information or not try to find him. I care, Scott."

"I know."

"I _care_."

"I _know_." Scott says, placing his hand on Derek's knee. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Derek says softly, his gaze falling. "For everything."

"It's not your fault." Scott replies, because it's true. As easy as it would be to blame Derek for this, it wouldn't be right. "It's not. Your uncle's psychotic. That's not your fault."

"But I've been having dinner with him. Every week for the past fifteen months. And I didn't know," Derek marvels. "How could I have missed it? Not smelled Stiles on him? Not ever noticed?"

"It's Peter, Derek." Scott says. "He knows how to cover his tracks. He had everyone convinced he was comatose and once came back from the grave. I can't imagine a little scent concealing is all that difficult for him."

"He's been walking around here like he's innocent, Scott." Derek states, his eyes hardening. "And we've been letting him."

Scott closes his eyes. "I know."

"It isn't over."

Scott opens his eyes. "I don't think it ever was."

**XXX**

"Lydia, there's a boy at the door!"

Lydia perks up at her mother's call, her attention stolen by quantum physics at the moment. "What?" She hollers back.

"Lydia, there's someone here to see you!"

Lydia tears herself away from the textbook, taking the stairs quickly. "But I'm not expecting any – Stiles." Lydia chokes when she sees who's at her door.

He looks… good. Unsure, but good. He's favoring his prosthetic and wringing his hands together in that distracting way he does sometimes that makes her want to yell at him for having such distracting hands. But she chooses sanity instead. He makes eye contact and she feels the breath leaving her and she's stuck mid-step like an idiot, unsure of what to do.

"I can go, if you're busy," Stiles starts sheepishly.

"No!" Lydia all but shouts, earning an amused gaze from her mother. Regaining as much composure as possible in this moment, Lydia tilts her head up and announces, "Mother, Stiles and I are going for a walk and we'll be back in a few hours."

Mrs. Martin rolls her eyes. "Text me if you're out past eleven. Make sure you're home by midnight, though."

Stiles frowns. "But it's only one in the afternoon."

Mrs. Martin waves her hands carelessly. "Just to be on the safe side, I want to make sure everyone's on the same page."

She gives Lydia a knowing look and Lydia grabs her jacket before her mom can do anything more mortifying. Thank God Stiles is about as clueless as they come. "Bye mom!" She shouts, only allowing the annoyance to filter in her voice because it seems like the right thing to do. Her mom only laughs in return.

However, as soon as they are outside and walking, it occurs to Lydia that she's _outside and walking with Stiles by herself_. She is _not_ mentally prepared for this. She hadn't steeled herself at the idea of Stuart leaving and Stiles taking his place back – not to mention, she's entirely unsure of what he remembers of his temporary stint as the new kid. God, she hopes he doesn't—

"I know it's a little weird," Stiles says, breaking the silence while rubbing the back of his neck. "But I just had to see you. As me. Stiles. I really missed you all these months."

Lydia's panic filters out. "Trust me, the feeling's beyond mutual."

"Really?" Stiles says, smiling.

Lydia's almost offended. "Of course, you idiot. Who else is going to challenge me academically? You're nothing if you don't progress onward."

"What about Danny?" Stiles offers. "Danny smart as hell."

"Danny is," Lydia pauses, entirely unsure of how to continue that sentence. "Danny isn't you." She settles on because, well, it's true. "Danny doesn't challenge my GPA and also bitch about whether the history of the male circumcision should be implemented into the curriculum."

"Yes, that is a talent that indeed only I share."

"Plus, Danny is Danny. And you are you." Lydia shrugs as if that stupidly constructed sentence said everything. "You're my best friend, Stiles. After Allison, I-I—"

She falters, marveling at how even after all this time, she still can barely talk about her fall best friend. How she almost lost her other best friend. "I didn't really have anyone but you and Scott. Kira's new and you know Malia and I are not going to be besties any time soon. And Scott has Kira and is the True Alpha and all that. That leaves you."

Stiles' mouth twitches in a small smile. "Are you saying I'm your best friend by default?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "That's absolutely what I'm saying. I'm glad that's what you took out of that. And it's meant in the most condescending tone possible."

"Well, as long as it's condescending."

"You know what I mean, Stiles." Lydia says. "I thought I lost you too."

"For a while there, I thought you had as well." Stiles shivers, his eyes growing distant. Lydia wants to ask, but she isn't sure whether it's okay to do so. If she has the right or if he even wants to talk about it. But before she can make up her mind, Stiles beats her to the punch with an awkward question of his own. "Did you mean it?"

"I beg your pardon?" Lydia asks, confused.

"Did you mean what you said? That you love me?"

_Shit_. All Lydia wants to do is run and hide. He wasn't supposed to remember that. Stuart was supposed to be a weird fantasy that he couldn't tell if it was real or not.

"Stiles, I-I—"

"Because you said that you loved me and were too late." Stiles presses on, refusing to make eye contact with her. "And I understand if those are just words and you were saying them because I was sitting there and not remembering you and it made you feel a bunch of emotions. I get that, I really do. So if you want to take it back, I totally understand. But I need to know. Did you mean what you said that night?"

Lydia is at a loss of what to say. He's giving her an out. A perfectly good out that makes sense and is safe. And out that would prevent him from ever prying further. But… oddly, she doesn't want to take it. "Stiles," she begins, not even sure of what she wants to say anyways. "I think—"

Stiles eyes go wide. For a moment, she thinks it's because he knows what she's going to say – which makes no sense because even s_he_ doesn't know what she's going to say – but then he shoves her behind him.

That's when she sees it.

It's horrifying, to say the very least. A gigantic beast, covered in tangle, matted fur with a black substance dripping from its jowls stands before them. It growls, its eyes glowing from blue to red, back to blue again, splattering the disgusting substance onto the concrete of the sidewalk. "Lydia," Stiles hisses, his hands quaking as he hands her his phone. "Call Scott. He's Speed Dial #3."

Lydia presses '3' and 'Send,' her free hand finding its way onto Stiles' shirt and curling her fingers into the fabric. "Stiles," she says, her voice cracking as the monster moves closer.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

"It's okay, Lydia. It's okay," Stiles says, his voice growing more panicked as the seconds dripped away. "You're going to be fine. I won't let anything happen to you."

Her hand grips tighter on his flannel shirt.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

"Stiles," she wants to tell him to stop. To do nothing. Don't protect her. She can't imagine everyone just getting Stiles back and them him disappearing through the jaws of Beacon Hills' newest heinous creature.

"It's okay, Lydia," Stiles says, but it's distant and repetitive, like mantra he's repeating for himself more than her. "It's okay. It's okay."

The monster rears back on its hind legs, its eyes focusing on the unsettling crimson.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

**A/N: Damn phones, amirite? And if Scott is #3 – who is #2 and 1? Haha, me just being vague and unhelpful – what else is new?!**

**I really enjoyed the callback scene to Scott and Derek fighting. I love their we're mentee/mentorship thing they've got going on. More please!**

**Please leave a note if you have the time! Much love!**


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